


Evanescence

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Arthur Whump, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Micah has his own agenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: More than anything, Micah wants the money in Blackwater. And he doesn't really care what he has to do to get there. Step one; become Dutch's right hand man. The only person stopping him from getting there?Arthur Morgan.
Comments: 273
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

This was not an ideal situation.

True, he had been through a lot of shit in the past twenty years, especially these past six months. What with Dutch getting desperate, almost reckless as each plan ended in miserable failure. Time and time again, another job soured, another shovel full of dirt, the hole they were digging only getting deeper and deeper. Up to their knees in shit, they were. And he? Well he was up to his neck in shit now.

Quite literally.

Or rather mud, he supposed. That was the correct terminology. Thick and heavy. Cold; seeping into every pore. Bits and clumps hanging off of eyelashes, obscuring his vision. Putrid and rank, straight up his nose. He could taste it even; it left him spitting, gagging almost, the taste overwhelming, gritty and heavy as he weakly spat, trying to purge the horrid taste from his mouth. Not that he managed much. Not that he could manage much at all, head sinking wearily back to the sodden floor.

For all the people he had hogtied, Arthur himself had never had the pleasure of being on the receiving end. Until now, that was. Normally he kept his wits about him. Cynical, Dutch liked to call him. Always on edge, always doubting. It had kept him alive thus far. True he liked to help others. True he could be far too trusting at times. Trusting, but not stupid. Or so he liked to think. Always kept an eye out, always had an ear strained, listening for the slightest hint something wasn’t quite right. Waiting for that proverbial knife to be driven into his back.

He expected it from half the people he came across. Not just strangers, but from the O’driscolls. And the Lemoyne Raiders. And the god damn nightfolk that stalked the swamps. He expected it from the random passerby in busy towns, or pesky lawmen, what with his bounty being so high. He hadn’t expected it from one of their own. Hadn’t expected it from _him._

He should have though.

Damn bastard.

Hadn’t also expected it to be a literal knife either. Stunted but sharp, driving through skin, catching on bone. Right through his shoulder; the same god damn shoulder that was still healing. Pain flaring, enough to steal his breath in a gasp and cut his words off. Couldn’t remember what he even had been saying. Some sort of slight. They never spoke kindly to one another; damn bastard hadn’t done anything to result in a gentle phrase being tossed his way.

Anger, shock, and instinct had him lashing out; elbow catching a solid mass behind him, a grunt as the blade was torn free. Blood had flowed freely from the wound, pulsating in fierce objection. Arthur had turned, a curse on his lips, fingers brushing the gun by his side. New agony exploded, reverberating behind his eyes, a heavy blow to his head that had left him reeling, his vision wavering as he staggered in almost a drunken fashion. Must have blacked out, because next he knew he was face first on the ground, arms wrenched behind him, the rope being tied off, the voice in his ear.

“ _Nothing personal, Cowpoke. Business is all. I’d say that you’d understand, but like Dutch says, big shadow, tiny tree. I don’t think you’d get it, and I don’t have the time to explain. So sit tight and enjoy the ride.”_

A ride he hardly remembered. Strung over the back of a horse, visions of the ground racing below him, the stench of sweat, the heavy aroma of horse assaulting his senses. An echo of another recent memory that was still all too fresh in his mind. Fading in and out, spells of dizziness, of nausea occupying his thoughts. Air that was thick and heavy was soon replaced by a breeze that was cooler and crisper. Almost fresh...or would be, if it weren’t for the foul putrid stench of rotting fish and wastes that had collected here along the shores of the Lannahechee River.

He had been a little more aware then. Enough to know where he was, enough to notice he was being moved. He tried to protest, to curse, but he had been gagged sometime between the swamps and here. And the muffled words just provoked Micah to laugh, the man dumping him unceremoniously the mud. At least it had cushioned the impact. Didn’t do a whole lot to spare the agony that ripped its way up his bound arms. His shoulder throbbing fiercely.

“ _Come to think of it, this is mostly your fault,”_ Micah had taunted him. _“I tried, I really did try to get along, to make you understand that I wasn’t a threat. But all you ever did was complain. Complain and doubt. Not just me, but Dutch as well. Don’t think I haven’t been talking to him; we’ve been talking a lot, right ol’ pals we are. He trusts me, you know. You, on the other hand? Well, let’s just say he’s had his doubts about you.”_

Dutch…

He and Dutch _hadn’t_ been seeing eye to eye lately. Maybe Arthur _was_ starting to doubt, to lose faith in his mentor; the very man he saw as a father. That he had seen as a father until of late. Dutch was changing, had changed, even since before that mess at Blackwater. The mess on that ferry seemed like a tipping point more than the beginning of something new. One layer after another slowly unraveling, much like a ball of yarn. Leaving being a faint glimmer of what was once there. Frazzled, desperate, anxious, restive. A whole new persona slowly consuming the man he had for so long known as steadfast and unwavering. The man that, every so often, Arthur could still see buried far beneath murky layers.

He had been there during the stay at Colter, words heavy in the cold air as he reassured everyone that they would be fine. He had been there when he had wrapped his own coat around Sadie, promising the widow she was safe. Had emerged back in Valentine, sharing drinks in the saloon before that mess with Cornwall. Again in Rhodes, reminiscing about past times while they fished, goading him while they raced, dry dust swirling about them. Faint whispers of hope, a feeble promise that he hadn’t faded completely.

But those times were few and far between. Diminishing all the more each and every day. Replaced by someone who was thin on patience, carrying words that were bitter and cruel; unrestrained. In times past, when Arthur brought up a concern, Dutch would listen. Often with a distant expression, sometimes a bemused smile. Would reassure him after, a clasp on the back followed by a brief speech of having faith.

Now, the only thing that remained was the speech. But no longer was it warm and inspiring, rather instead it was crisp, more like a challenge. A warning. Even Hosea, who more often than not could talk sense in the man, often found himself cowering away, a thin mutter lost in the wind. Dutch had his own plan, had his own desires, his own agenda, and would not be swayed. Not any longer, not by the likes of them.

Micah on the other hand…

It had been Micah who had pushed for that meeting with Colm. He had suspected a trap, Hosea had even _warned_ against it. But Dutch had brushed them both off, had been encouraged by Micah instead. Just the three of them, and Arthur had agreed because despite what Dutch thought, Arthur would never turn his back on him. Would follow him through the depths of Hell.

Nearly had.

A trap it was; beaten and shot, tortured. Strung upside down in a cellar like some damn kill, waiting to be butchered. He was the bait, the lure to catch the real prey. The only reason why he had been left alive. Dead prey caught nothing but vultures. He would be dead soon enough; soon as the final trap was sprung. The fall of the Van der Linde Gang; he would not allow himself to be the reason for that. Had pushed himself, had managed to escape that hell. Had spent several long days after caught in a tumult of a fever, drowned in an agony that left him unable to establish dream from reality.

That had been weeks ago.

He had healed well enough, had just been getting back to his feet when Dutch approached him. Agitated, frustrated, aggravated. Hands crossed in front of his chest, the scowl easily read on his face, a brewing fury barely tapped within his eyes.

“ _I am doing everything, Arthur, to try and keep us afloat. We are all working, all sweating, to make ends meet. The ledger is blank, the box is empty...Pearson is attempting to feed us with varmints so far gone not even the crows will touch the remains. I need you, Arthur, we need you to start pulling your weight. No more excuses.”_

Excuses...like having a damn hole blown through your shoulder was an _excuse_.

“ _That’s not fair, Dutch. It ain’t like that.”_

“ _Then what is it like?”_

That hadn’t been an invitation to a meaningful discussion. The words laced with barely restrained venom. Arthur hadn’t responded, merely closed his journal and moved to his feet. Maybe he had pushed his luck, had taken it far too easy. Been down for far too long. His shoulder still hurt, muscles weak and tender, but he had to push. They all had to keep pushing.

So he had saddled up, had gone out.

Hadn’t done much.

Meek offerings. A pittance from what he normally brought in. Hunted some rabbits, pilfered some pockets out on the road, even ransacked a cabin within the woods. Made twenty dollars from that. Still hadn’t been enough, the box so empty the bottom could be seen. He needed a job, a real job. Any job. So when Micah had approached him and Bill about a stage robbery, he had taken to it.

Should have never trusted him.

Should have been smarter.

Should have known better.

“ _You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this. Thought I’d lost my chance there, for a while, when Colm snagged you. A bittersweet thing for sure. Figured on one hand that my problems were over, but on the other I was disappointed I couldn’t off you myself. But seems the man couldn’t do even the simplest of things right. Won’t be making that mistake here.”_

Arthur let out a grunt, the words still running through his mind. Hands behind his back working, twisting and pulling, trying to slip free.

“ _See, with you out of the way, I can finally start getting Dutch to see where our priorities lie. It’s been hard work, constantly having to undo all that nonsense you and Matthews spew into his head, but I’m making progress. All I need to do now is to work some magic, get him to see reason, get him to understand. Trim the fat and get the gang back down to reasonable numbers. Most of them folk are useless anyways, lazy sods who fatten themselves off the backs of those who are working, women who won’t spread their legs, a damn child for fuck sakes? What kind of gang is that?”_

Family, Arthur had wanted to shout. They were god damn family. They took care of one another, a ragtag group of misfits that didn’t belong in the world. A place where they could find some sanctuary from the cruelties of life. It wasn’t about the money, never _had_ been about the money. Even if he could explain all of this to Micah, the man would not listen.

“ _I am curious, though,”_ he had gone on, a slight mirth in his voice. “ _I wonder what will get you first? The tide...or the gators?”_

The laugh had sent a chill down his spine. Cold fear gnawing at his center, stomach twisted into knots that seemed to hold faster than the ropes about his wrists. A good thing, perhaps...because they were slowly starting to loosen. Damn idiot couldn’t tie a knot to save his life. Good enough though...because he knew Micah’s words were true.

The river rose and fell with the ebb of the tide. The waters had been further out, but as day turned into evening they were starting to seep back in. The mud was starting to squelch, his weight sinking him deeper with each struggle. Cold wetness soaking into his clothes, slowly leeching the mud from his face. He was glad to be rid of that, but the relief was minute, compared to a much larger worry. The tide was high enough now that he had to lift his head in order to breathe. A few gulping breaths, exhaustion mounting, taking a toll on his fatigued form. Enough to keep his going, senses obscured as he twisted his hands, working free that one bit of rope that hadn’t been tied properly.

“ _Don’t you worry, cowpoke. I’ve got it all worked out; a month from now we’ll be back in Blackwater territory, rich on the spoils of our hard work, enjoying life...some of us at least. Still need to make some adjustments. Improvements, I guess you could say. You should feel honored, that you were first on my list. As for Matthews...I’ll make sure the man doesn’t suffer too much. After all, I ain’t done all this work with you to allow him to fester like a bad disease in Dutch’s ear. Besides, he’s old, and sick...already on his way out. I’ll be doing him a favor actually.”_

The second thing that had sent a tremor through him. How many more was he planning to kill? In what ghoulish fashion? He had to get out, had to get back, _had_ to warn them.

He didn’t lift his head high enough this time. A mouthful of putrid water invading his senses. He spat, choking and gagging, wrenched his head up as far as he could, managed another breath. He was running out of time. A few more minutes is all he had. If this didn’t work…

It had to work.

He was almost there...he was almost free…

* * *

The plan had gone almost flawlessly. Almost, because despite his weakened state, Morgan had still gotten the best of him. His nose had bled for a while, and already he could feel the tenderness there, knew he was going to have a bruise. He would need a story for that, he knew, the grim thoughts brewing in his head as he rode back to camp.

Yet, over all, things had been easy. Far easier than anticipated. Time was running out, he knew. He had to act, sooner rather than later. Had to convince Dutch to turn back before it was too late, and Micah knew that would never happen with Morgan around. Nor with Matthews, but Morgan...Morgan was his main worry. For months he had been working, attempting to bribe Morgan, to win his favor and get the man under his thumb. Had taken him along on hits, had given him guns, an extra holster even. Had done _everything_ to entice him. To no avail. Morgan might not have been the brightest man at camp, but he was no fool.

Arthur was loyal to a fault; fiercely protective of the camp and the members within. One time Micah had made a pass at Abigail, had while he had gotten an earful from Marston, it was Morgan that had nearly scared the wits out of him. Man like that could do serious damage if he wanted. And that was why Micah could not afford to keep him around any longer.

He had been planning for a time now. Trying to find a way to dispose of the menace without detection. Then the business with Colm had happened, and Micah was certain his worries were over. There had been a brief moment of elation weeks ago when the man had dragged himself back to camp, wounded and delirious with fever. Micah was certain his troubles were over. Until Arthur pulled through the fever. Until he was able to get back to his feet. Until he _started_ to pull money and resources back in with him.

He had heard the spat between him and Dutch. Had seen the scowl as Morgan pushed himself. Could see the exhaustion there also. Micah knew acting sooner, as opposed to later, was the only feasible choice. So he had put his plan into action, hoping that Morgan would fall for it. Which he did. Even brought Bill along, make it look convincing.

Oh the stage robbery was real enough. He had gotten that information from an informant in town. Had led the way out to the swamps, enticing Morgan to plant the dynamite. Had to make him feel important, after all. It was a pretty good haul, a few hundred, split between all three of them. Then they had split off, gone their separate ways. Or at least, Bill had.

See, the one thing he knew how to do, was to get under Morgan’s skin. It had taken but a few words, a crooked grin on his face as he shuffled through the bills. _“Seems like you aren’t as wasted as Dutch thought you were.”_

Morgan did not like any sort of comment that involved him and Dutch. There was history there, long and complicated, something about Dutch plucking the man off the streets as a boy, saving him, teaching him. Pathetic. As far as he was concerned, Dutch should have left Morgan on the streets to die, would have done them all a big favor there. But he hadn’t, and Morgan, dumb and loyal Morgan, was unquestionably loyal to the man. But he lacked self-confidence. The doubt easy to read in his features. And the slur had gotten to him in just the manner he had intended.

Instead of riding off, Morgan had stayed behind, had fed him a sloppy comeback that was weak in nature, the anger rolling off his skin. Had he been at his peak, Micah might have been worried. Might have...Morgan was all bark, not bite, it seemed.

Well maybe...he _had_ seen what the man was capable of, and knew that deep down there was a violent rage that clawed its way out every now and then. If he pushed hard enough, he might be on the receiving end of that rage, so he had to tread carefully. So he stood meekly, waited for the tirade to end. Waited for Morgan to turn his back.

And sunk the knife in deep.

Why a knife instead of a gun? Gunfire would attract attention. With all the commotion they had caused he did not doubt the law had already been told, and were making their way here already. Last thing he needed was for them to be on their tail. And Bill...dumb stupid man might find enough sense to turn around and see what the fuss was about. Couldn’t have that.

So knife it was.

He had been aiming for the man’s heart. Damn knife wasn’t long enough. But it did enough. Made him stagger. Before he lashed out. Micah reached up, rubbing the tender flesh, wincing at the memory. It hadn’t hurt then. His heart had been pounding, racing in his ears as he pulled free his gun, smashing it into Morgan’s head.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

It had dropped him, dazed and confused, and Micah wasted little time in roping him. He nearly slit his throat, but something had stopped him. Morgan, pain in the ass Morgan, did not deserve to go that easily. If he did things right, he could let him bleed out, slowly but surely. But the law, the damn law would find him. Would patch him up; even if they recognized him from his bounty they would want to hang him, make an example of him. Dutch wouldn’t allow that, would go in and save him, and _then_ where would they be?

Nowhere favorable.

So getting him out of this area was the first step. He had tossed the half-conscious form over Baylock, and sped from the area. At first he had intended to find somewhere remote to finish the job. Leave him to rot somewhere in the swamp. By the time anyone noticed he was missing, there would be nothing left to find. But as he sped east, the idea was planted in his mind, and it continued to grow, until it had taken over every remaining thought he had left. And it was too delicious to pass up.

He shouldn’t have told him; but it was too hard to resist. After all the shit he had been through, all the sneers, all the damn talk...he wanted to watch Morgan squirm. And squirm he did, like an inchworm, almost drowning in mud. The tide would be all the way in a few hours. A slow and poetic death. If the gators didn’t eat him first. Micah had left him gagged, had hidden him away from prying eyes, situated him among the reeds, his prone form concealed from any passerby. Then he had tipped his hat, had mounted Baylock, and sped off to camp.

To which he was just now pulling up. The memories sweetly lingering in his mind still, the smile on his face. He had almost forgotten about the bruise...until Lenny had called out to him upon his arrival. Micah did his best not sneer, the lie springing out easily.

“Raiders,” he spat out, “got set upon coming back, but I took care of them, don’t you worry _boy_.”

The last part had come out as a sneer. Lenny...Lenny would be another one to go. There was no way in _Hell_ he would be seen riding with a nigger. Damn Dutch and his ridiculous philosophies. For all his greatness, the man could sure be an idiot at times. Micah hitched Baylock, hollered for Kieran to take care of the beast as he sauntered over towards Dutch’s tent, the smile wide on his face as he pulled free the bills.

“I know we’ve been struggling, boss,” he nodded towards the man, “so allow me to give the ultimate sacrifice, and give the camp my entire share.”

Micah placed the money in the box, hand running over the wood in a gentle caress, acting as though he felt true concern and care. What he failed to mention was that he had taken Morgan’s share already, and it was that share he had put in the box. The rest he would keep for his own means, but Dutch did not need to know that. And the grin that graced the man’s face was almost palpable, the approval there. The plan was working already.

“It warms my heart greatly to see such selfless devotion, Mr. Bell. A few more good folk like you, and we could actually be leaving for paradise. The dream is just in reach now.”

The dream...a tropical island. Yet another bit of nonsense he had to work on getting out of the man’s head. All in due time. Play the fool for now.

“Of course, boss. You know I would give _anything_ for these folk; I would gladly die for them.”

“I know you would,” Dutch gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Go and get some rest, you’ve earned it.”

He would not complain. He grabbed a few bottles of beer, took a seat by the fire, happily toasting himself on a job well done. Bill joined him a few moments later, a scowl on his face.

“What did you have to go and do that for?”

“What are you talking about, big man?”

“You? Giving all your money away? Dutch just got on _my_ case for not putting enough in the box. So what if I only gave a portion to the camp? It’s my money, I earned it.”

“You know how he is,” Micah tried to console him. After all, Bill was one person he _intended_ to keep around. Dumb, but big, easily manipulated. Yeah, he needed to keep the man on his good side. The smirk worked its way through. “Once Morgan comes in and give his share, Dutch will forget all about you and nag him for a while.”

“I wish,” Bill muttered grimly, “Dutch don’t care how little he puts in; all I ever hear him say is ‘Good job, Arthur’ and ‘Way to go, _son,’._ You know he brought back a couple of rabbits earlier in the week and Pearson all but praised him for it? Like, that isn’t enough to feed me let alone the rest of camp, and here’s Pearson, acting like he’s some savior or something.”

The bitterness was easy to hear. Micah hid his amusement with a drink, passing the bottle over to the grumbling man just then. Seemed as though not everyone appreciated Morgan’s presence. Things would be interesting come a few days when his disappearance was discovered. For now, he put on his best face of indifference, leaning back in the chair.

“That’s because he’s privileged, big man. Part of the ‘Original Guard’. Dutch is too soft on him, let’s him get away with whatever he wants. Why do you think he’s gone from camp all the time? No one else could do that and get away with it, but Morgan? Nah, Dutch don’t care what he gets up to.”

Yet another truth that would work in his favor. He had already planted the seed of doubt in Dutch’s mind. Had already brought up the fact of Morgan’s constant disappearance, had floated the idea that _someone_ was ratting them out, given all the poor luck they’ve had. Dutch didn’t believe it, of course, but Micah didn’t need for him to believe it right now. Only needed for it to brew and fester there for the time being. Let it grow, readdress it once more when some time had passed.

“All I’m saying is-” Bill started, only to be cut off by a yell. Javier all worked up, exhausted from the morning of keeping watch. It enticed an amusing round of bitter curses, Bill hollering back that he was coming, before turning back to Micah. “Why do I always get stuck on guard duty?”

“Cause you do a fine job at it,” Micah nodded towards him as Bill left. It was yet another task Morgan always seemed to avoid. He took another swig, finishing off the bottle, letting out a belch as he watched the fire. Good riddance; the lot of them would be better off without him. This was something he should have done a long time ago.

He wasn’t alone for long. Javier took the previous man’s spot, sitting down with a sigh. Crisp words muttered, a string of what he presumed to be curses barely heard, the man growling in Spanish. Micah whistled, catching his attention before tossing him a beer. The man caught it easily, nodded his thanks, took a long drink. Javier...yet another resourceful man, even if he were a darkie. He would keep him around for the time being. Couldn’t get rid of everyone at once, after all. Too much suspicion.

“Bill says you guys pulled off a job alright?”

“Decent enough,” Micah commented, watching his tone. This was just a friendly conversation after all.

“Well, the camp sure needs it. Arthur stay out to do some hunting?”

“Who knows _what_ that man gets up to,” he didn’t miss a beat. Had to play it cool. And was he ever the actor.

“I hope so,” Javier didn’t seem to notice the lack of enthusiasm on his part. Simply took another drink. “I’m getting sick of whatever Pearson’s been trying to feed us.”

There was a reason Micah had been eating in town. He didn’t bother to announce this, merely worked on opening another beer, relishing in the taste. Tonight was a night of celebration, a simple small step on the way to ultimate fortune.

He glanced up at Javier's grunt, watching the confused look on the man’s face. Had no clue what he was staring at, until he turned to glance over his shoulder. He felt his heart stop. His breath stagger in his chest, the blood all but draining from his face. Had anyone been paying attention they would have noticed the pallor of his features. But as it were, they were all distracted by the sight.

Charles had come in on Taima, another horse in tow behind him. An Arabian, almost identical to the infamous Count that Dutch prized. But this was not Dutch’s. There was only one other person who owned an Arabian, and Micah felt his chest tighten. The damn horse.

He had forgotten about the god damn horse.

“What’s going on Charles?”

The ever perceptive Matthews had been the first to notice something was amiss. Charles had secured both the horses at the pole, greeting the older man halfway to Dutch’s tent. Micah watched as he reached out, a gentle hand resting on Matthew’s arm.

“I need to speak with you and Dutch.”

“Now is not a good time, Mr. Smith,” Dutch had been quick to brush him off, head buried in a book. Micah listened with strained ears, knowing that whatever was to be said _was not_ a good thing. Damn him and all his smugness. How could he be so stupid?

He should have killed Morgan. Should have known better. The man was slippery, had slithered out of more than one overwhelming situation. Why not here? But...if he had gotten out, then where was he? Charles had brought back his horse, the same horse that had been left in the swamps, far away from the Lannahechee River. So maybe the man had just discovered the horse, and this here was his attempt to gather a search party and head out to find him.

Yes...that had to be it. He let out a breath, convincing himself to calm down.

If they were asking for volunteers, then he would be sure to be the first amongst them. Micah pushed himself to his feet, moving towards the small group that had clustered. Much to Dutch’s annoyance, Charles had been insistent, hadn’t been cowed by the bitter retort shot his way. As always, calm and reserved, his voice held low as he pleaded for the man to listen.

“Best make it quick, then,” Dutch snapped, laying the book down in his lap. “Tell us then, what is so important that it can not wait till a later time?”

“I found Hera,” the man motioned to the steed behind him. “She was left tied up in the swamp; I found her on my way back to camp.”

“And you just took her?” Dutch raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Smith, I recommended you head back out there, otherwise Arthur is going to assume he’s been robbed.”

“You don’t think I searched the area for him?” Charles growled, pausing to check his tone at the look he received. The man took a breath.

“Arthur...he...” another pause, the man trying to find his words. Micah waiting for him to suggest taking several men out to search for the fallen comrade. Instead Charles swallowed, voice almost broken.

“He’s dead, Dutch. Arthur’s dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Arthur's dead._

He couldn't even begin to describe how beautifully sweet those two words sounded. He had done it. He had actually done it.

That worry, all that apprehension that had nearly drowned him a moment ago was suddenly gone, and a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He could breathe again. His heart, so set on busting out of his ribs and drowning out all the thoughts in his head was now settling. He felt, for a moment, weak. Ready to collapse. He locked his knees tight, forced himself to to stay upright, a swath of bitter swears racing through his head. He was lucky. 

_Damn lucky._

That little oversight could have cost him. Could have cost him _everything._ Months of work, weeks of planning, all of it could have been gone; all due to his proclivity towards meretricious cruelty. His boastful desire had almost gotten the better of him. What a fool he had been; but it seemed as though fortune favored him. Next time… next time he would do things differently. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Micah forced himself to breathe. 

Ahead of him the small crowd that gathered around Dutch's tent had grown into a mass. Near every member pressed in close, shuffling him out towards the fringes of the group, voices sounding in shock and alarm, disbelief and concern. 

It made him sick. 

After all, they had suffered Arthur's meddling quite long enough; the man's comeuppance was long overdue. He knew that there were others that felt the same way as he did. He had held the privilege of hearing the man argue more often than not. Morgan was a nuisance, a beaten old dog that had lost his bite. So in his mind, he had done the camp a favor. Yet by listening to everyone here and now, he was starting to think that they actually _cared_ for this man. 

No one had made this big of a fuss over Mac or Davey; two men who were worth far more than Morgan could have ever hoped to amount too. Ruthless men, ambitious; his kind of people. Yet hardly a tear had been shed over them; Mac all but forgotten, his name a vague memory seemingly lost in the wind. And Davey? Shit, they had hardly made a grave for his body, had dumped him somewhere in the snow back up in Colter. Hadn't even said parting words for him. 

Now here was Charles, barely able to muster those sweet delicious words, and everyone was starting to make a fool of themselves. He could ignore fools well enough; had to, knowing that these next moments were precious. Had to make his move while Dutch was distracted, confounded and overwrought.  _Of course_ the man would be upset. Arthur had been a thorn in the man's side for so long now that Dutch had grown accustomed to it. Having that spur torn from him so abruptly had to hurt despite the freedom it offered. 

_Give it time_ , Micah chastised himself, pushing his way through the crowd. Enough time and Morgan would be forgotten, nothing more than a bitter memory. Even more time and those too would dissipate. But now...right now was a time for compassion. For consolation. To work himself even closer, shroud himself within Dutch's good graces. 

The whistle, sharp and piercing, cut through the air. Deafened the crowd, brought the frantic murmurs to an end. Matthews stood by Dutch's side, taking command it seemed, as Dutch himself seemed lost. He still sat on the chair, book balanced in his lap, mouth agape, eyes darting. 

“What happened, Charles?” Matthews was talking to the man, coaxing the words that seemed to be trapped within his chest. 

“I followed tracks out east, out to the Lannahechee River and...he...I found him there. He...I think Raiders got him. He was...”

“No,” Dutch spoke for the first time, his gaze had zeroed in on the pair. Micah stood fast, still at the forefront of the crowd. He wanted to move, but now was not the time. Silent words whispering in his ear, warning him to wait. Wait for the right moment. 

“I do not believe—” Dutch started again, only to falter, turning away, “He— That’s not—”

“He was...they left him to drown, and I couldn't… he was…” Charles continued to fumble. Damn redskin was actually choked up over this. It was disgusting. 

“Where is he?” Dutch demanded just then, moving to his feet. “Where is my _son_ _?_ ”

_Son?_ Micah scoffed, the disgust bitter in his mouth. What Dutch saw in him he could not say. But the man had a point, because he  too had wondered the same thing. Surely the moron had enough sense to drag the body back with him, although Micah had to admit he rather fancied the idea of Morgan's body slowly rotting away within the confines of the river. No doubt that the gators would enjoy his bloated corpse, if not them, then the fish. Ironic, was it not, considering how many times Morgan stated he was a poor fisherman. Now Micah could bet the man was catching more fish than ever before. The thought forced a smile on his face, one he quickly disguised with a cough. Berated himself once more; he really  _had_ to be more careful.

“I took him north, past the marshes... There’s a— a hill there; facing west, you know? Like he… He always said he...”

What a shame. 

There were murmurs of approval, soft cries from the women as the news was shared and crestfallen looks from Matthews, but it was mostly disbelief that covered Dutch's face. As though the man was still processing the words. He shuffled, reached up with a hand, rubbed the back of his neck, turned away suddenly. Micah could swear he saw tears there. 

He could not believe the man was this broken over Morgan's departure. Being upset was one thing, but crying? Robbed of his very words? Where was  _this_ compassion when Davey had passed away? When they had learned of Mac's unfortunate fate? For a moment, the briefest of moments, he wished Dutch had been with him. Wished that Dutch had been there to see how frail and pathetic Morgan had been in his final moments. To see what he had wasted all his time and effort on.  _Twenty years_ . Twenty god damn years, and this was the result? 

It left him fucking nauseated. 

Morgan was worthless. Hadn't amounted to anything. And yet, as things seemed here, he apparently was the only thing that mattered. His heart was pounding again, his skin burning. He could feel his cheeks flush, knew he had to calm down before he gave himself away. But he couldn't. The rage was too hot, too strong. And another idea grew. Replaced his previous one. 

No compassion this time. 

Vengeance. 

He would demand vengeance. His hand fell to his gun. Gripped the handle tight. Cleared his throat, spoke above the murmurs of the crowd.

“What we gonna do about it, boss?” 

He was more than happy to lay blame to the Lemoyne Raiders. Had no qualms about killing folk. Better them than him, and there was something deep-seated inside of him that relished in such acts. A flurry of adrenaline that sated his never ending thirst that burned deep inside of him. He wanted Dutch to feel that too, knew that the man had it in him. It surfaced every now and then, smothered far too often by a soft blanket of compassion. 

Dutch had far too much compassion. 

Yet another thing he would fix. 

So he gripped his gun tight, let that anger flow freely. Relished in the feel as others followed his lead, wanting answers, wanting to right this perceived wrong. As much as he hated to admit it, Morgan's death might just be the thing he needed to set things into action. Start a war with the Raiders, and if...certain casualties...happened as a result, all the better. 

“Now is not the time to be running blind into another blood feud,” Matthews snapped, quieting the rambunctious crowd. 

“We just going to let them get away? Let them think they can kill one of our own, and that we ain't gonna do nothing about it?” he hollered, not ready to let that fire die just yet. If anything, it burned hotter. Matthews was a right old pain in the ass, always in Dutch's other ear. Not much of a threat as Morgan had been, but a nuisance all the same. He would be taken care of in due time.

“We don't even know if it was them,” Matthews scolded him, a deep frown on his face as though he was contemplating something. 

“Who else would it be?” 

Bill that time, the man had abandoned his post as guard duty, had joined the fray. Big and dumb, but loyal. Maybe  _he_ could ignite the fire once more. 

“No, he’s… Hosea is right,” Dutch seemed to have come around just then. Had stepped up near the man. “We are all hurting right now. I am… ” his eyes drifted, caught Marston's gaze; his steady facade wavered, “and we have all lost a brother. A friend. A _son_. But we—we must not let ourselves become entangled in the throes of petty vengeance. What matters now is that we keep moving, that we keep pushing, that we stay _together_. Arthur... this is what he would have wanted. This— he would not want to see anyone else _hurt_ on his behalf.”

Dutch and his speeches. Words wisely chosen. Calming. Reassuring. Heartfelt. 

Sickening. 

Micah glowered as the crowd slowly dissipated, one large mass dividing into numerous small ones, each comforting one another with soft words and warm embraces. He felt nauseous.

Dutch and Hosea stood together, Charles speaking with them quietly as John joined. Micah reached up, removing his hat and moved forward as well. Back to his original plan. Offer condolences. Offer the support Dutch would need through this...trying time. 

“Boss, let me say that out of everyone, Morgan's death weighs on me heavily. If anything, I feel responsible, asking him to come out with me. Had I not asked, he would...well he would still be alive, safe here at camp. I fear that my conscience will never allow me to forget this… _un_ _fortunate_ incident.”

Those words were dripping with sincerity. Hat held over his heart, head bowed in mock despair. He was practiced in the art of apology, knew very well how to pretend to be overwrought with grief. All he had to do was spit out words and laden the guilt on his shoulders. Swallow the blame, act as though he was drowning in emotion. It worked like a charm.

The hand on his shoulder, the gentle squeeze. Dutch's eyes sincere as he looked up. A faint smile there, sad but sympathizing. 

“Do not blame yourself, son. Sometimes things happen, and there isn't much we can do about it. We'll be okay; all of us...we will be okay.”

Micah replaced his hat, forced what he hoped was a somber smile. “Sure boss. I believe in you.”

He ignored the scoff from Marston. That man would have to go. Him, his woman, his damn child. All of them. 

Patience, he reminded himself. He had to be patient. 

“Hosea, John and I, we...Charles is going to take us out there. We're going to say our farewells...we'll be back in due time.”

“I understand,” Micah nodded, fingers looping in his gun belt. A waste of time, surely, but he knew there was little point in arguing. Let them go, let them wail and wallow over a shallow grave. No skin off his nose. As for him? He would continue his celebration, finish the rest of those beers. 

They were well deserved, after all.

* * *

Perhaps the news of Arthur's death should have been shared privately; the reveal had led to mayhem. Had he actually thought ahead, he might have found a way to lessen the shock. But he, himself, was still trying to process precisely what he had stumbled upon coming out of Saint Denis. And the words had come tumbling out of him as though a dam had busted and given way to high waters. Those same waters had deluged the group with raw and unsettling emotions that had nearly drowned them all. Accusations and insinuations were flung about, punctuated with bitter remorse and potent cries for vengeance that eventually melded into a flurry of commotion. Until Hosea had gotten control, a sharp whistle cutting through the air, his face set hard, his expression unreadable. 

That same expression still adorned his face, his body rigid atop of Silver Dollar's as the four of them set out past Rhodes, heading north towards Bluewater Marsh. Dutch was not faring much better. Had hardly spoken more than a handful of words since leaving camp. John had been the most talkative, attempting to fill the empty void with meaningless words, but soon fell silent once he realized it was doing little to comfort anyone.

Charles led the way, heart beating in his chest as they left the town behind; the red of the dirt had faded into more of a muted brown, grass growing freely here, fed by the insistent rains that seemed to taunt the drought-stricken area that had recently become their home. For a time he had pushed Taima, had wanted to put as much distance between them and camp, but as they started to reach the abandoned town of Pleasance, he eased up, giving her free reign. The others followed his lead, confusion muddling their features, growing evermore as he pulled off in between the weathered buildings. 

John was the first to question him, the tone in his voice rising a notch when Charles hushed him quietly. The words harsher a second time, all but faltering when Hosea shot him an indignant look. Charles had heard the stories of how Dutch and Hosea had more or less raised both Arthur and John, and from appearances now, he could well see it. That glowering look that had been graced upon him had silenced the man as though he were a youth, and at any other time, Charles might have found it amusing. 

As it was, he could hardly find humor in any situation. Certainly not _this_ situation. His heart still hammered, unable to be settled as he watched the road, his breath short and heavy. Hosea had come up near him, was watching alongside him, the silent question hanging in the air. A few more moments passed by, and he felt the tension ease, the slight fringes of relief toying inside of him as he turned. 

Only to find Dutch and John watching him questioningly. The scowl still graced John's face, but Dutch...Dutch's brow was furled in confusion, but there was a hint of something else there. Something deeper; darker. Charles let out a breath, scrambling to find a way to explain the sudden hiatus, the swift change in his demeanor. 

Dutch was sure to kill him; but he hadn't had the time to think of a different approach. 

Time had been precious. Time had been fleeting. His mind had been consumed by a whirlwind of thoughts and brewing emotions as he had made the trek towards camp. Haunting sounds reverberating within his ears, delusional cries and stuttered words hanging heavy within his soul. How much of it had been true he could not say, but he had trusted the man enough to not allow himself to slip into a torrent of doubt. So he clung to them. Clung to the possibility however implausible it had to be, and chose his actions wisely. 

And yet, following through with his chosen actions, and attempting to explain why he had done so, was something he was wholly unprepared for. Certainly not with three sets of eyes upon him, each one asking a multitude of silent questions. Charles cleared his throat; he was normally a man of few words. Seemed to be even fewer now. 

“I..I-uh,” he swallowed, glancing down the road again. Still quiet. He didn't think they were being followed; if they _were_ being followed, then their pursuers were doing a damn fine job of staying out of sight. Charles shook his head, trying to clear out the mounting apprehension, nudging Taima back onto the road.

“Where are you going?” 

John had been the one to ask. Of course it had been John; the man could not keep his mouth shut. But in a way he was glad, because apparently neither Dutch nor Hosea had been able to formulate any sort of words as they silently followed behind.

“We need to get to Saint Denis,” he finally decided as a way of explaining himself. 

“What the hell is in Saint Denis?” 

“Arthur,” he breathed, curbing Tamia as he turned to face the others. “Arthur's in Saint Denis.”

The three faces stared back at him, the expressions almost matched, uncertain in what they wanted to be. Once again, it was John who breached the silence, even though his voice was not as certain as before. 

“You said-”

“I lied,” he cut him off. More or less ignored him, eyes resting on the other two men. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Wanting. 

Wanting forgiveness. Unable to ask for it. Knew he didn't deserve it. 

They were all family; all of them were. But Dutch, Hosea and Arthur...they were far more than that, more than anyone could hope to understand. They were the original guard; a familial bond that had been built up from nothing, a speck of dust that had grown into a storm that had swept them all away. The three of them, a solidified unit that had carried and supported them all through many of years. And he had taken that from them; had all but ripped their beating hearts out and crushed it beneath those heavy words. 

Words he could not take back, no matter how many apologies were given their way. Wounds he doubted would ever heal, no matter how much time slipped by. He fiddled with the reigns at the prolonged silence, struggled to find the right words. 

“I..it's hard to explain, but he's alive,” he managed to get out, his next words in a hurry before the hope had a chance to evolve. “Only just; he wasn't looking so good when I left him.”

“He weren't looking good, and you just fuckin' left him alone in Saint Denis?” John nearly spat, the fury in his voice rising to a level never heard before. It sparked something inside of him, his own vehemence springing up to counter those bitter words with ones of his own.

“Don't be dense,” he snapped, “I left him with the damn doctor.” What the hell was John thinking? That he had just left Arthur face down in the streets of the bustling city? Did the man truly think so little of him?

“Boys,” the warning came, soft but stern, Hosea's eyes hard set, a studious gaze sweeping over him. “What are you going on about, Charles? I think you best explain yourself.”

“Yes,” Dutch agreed, his tone nearly unhinged, “Please _do_ explain yourself, _Mr. Smith_ _._ ”

He held Dutch's gaze at the accusatory tone, taking note of the restrained furor illuminated within those eyes. Any reasonable man would have been unnerved. Had he held more reason, Charles might have found a hint of consternation within his soul, but it was already too heavily weighed down by the culpability of past actions that could not be undone. His only hope now was attempting to explain, and hoping it would be enough to assuage the tempest he knew to brewing.

“He was half-delirious by the time I found him, and I-I don't know—” he forced himself to pause, to gather his thoughts as those haunting words floated back to the surface. A chill raced through him, seeping clear to his marrow, weighing even heavier on his already burdened heart. This was not something he wanted to explain, but there was little choice to be had.

“... but I think...I think Micah tried to kill him.”

Easier to just get it out in the open. Like ripping an arrow from flesh. An appropriate thought, seeing as the cry wrenched from them all sounded as though they had been wounded. John had been furious, the rage unconcealed as he let out a swear. Hosea, a bit more reserved, face pinched tight as he muttered something sullen. But it was Dutch who was the loudest. The angriest. The furor morphing into virulent rage as he closed the gap between them, fists clutching frenziedly at the reigns as though to keep them from lashing out unchecked. 

“I would suggest you watch yourself, Mr. Smith,” the man's voice tipping into a restrained yell. “I’m hardly in the mood to tolerate such blatantly _baseless_ accusations. That man has been nothing but loyal to me, and loyal to this gang! And the way I see it, the only one making any attempts at deception here is you. Now you had best explain yourself before—”

“Dutch,” Hosea warned, coming up alongside the man. A hand reached out to rest on his shoulder; the mere contact easing the tension there a fraction. “We should at least hear him out.”

For a moment, Charles wondered why all of this had fallen to him. Why he had been the one to stumble upon this mess. Why fate, or whatever one might call it, had led him down this path. But perhaps it wasn't so much as to why, but why not? Why not him? He, out of all the people within the gang, was one of the few least likely offended or disconcerted by opposition. Words that could rile up or subdue any a man seemed to skirt about and leave him untouched. Had this been anyone else in his place, they would have been reduced to a blubbering mess. 

As it were now, he could feel the apprehension building, resting on the fringes of awareness, but easily controlled. He simply adopted that same, stoic demeanor that seemed to always be with him. Charles only wished his words were easier to manage. 

“He kept… talking. About Micah,” he finally put out, eyes closing as he recalled the scene. Covered in mud, breaths cycling far too fast, words barely audible, sporadically distinguishable, broken up by coughs and retches that had shaken his entire core. The dark memory dousing out reality. More words, even more ghastly, flooding his mind. He opened his eyes, clawing his way back to the present.

“And you,” he met Hosea's eyes, held his gaze steady. “He… kept trying to warn you.”

“This is preposterous,” Dutch ground out. That anger was still there, still burning hotly, but tamed; leashed for the moment, “You mean to tell me Micah is out for everyone? To what end, dare I ask? That man has given _everything_ to this gang, he should hardly want to see it destroyed.”

He didn't miss the fact Dutch's hand had drifted to rest on his gun. Charles fought the urge to reach for his own, the instinct a harsh impulse to quell. Violence only begets violence, and would serve nothing here. And there was a part of him that believed the stories, the assurances that Van der Linde was a fair man, that he didn't just kill in anger. It fought with the other part of him, a newer, more recent memory floating in his mind, a reminder that the man _had_ killed in anger, in desperation. Blackwater had been proof enough for that. But that part lost out the former, and he chose to ignore the subtle action.

“I don't know,” he answered, looking between the two of them. “I just know what I saw, and what I heard.”

“Why don't you tell us everything,” Hosea had somehow shuffled his way between him and Dutch. Had put that extra space there, given him a chance to breathe. 

“I'm not sure I know where to start,” Charles admittedly weakly. He had gotten some of it out, had wrestled with nearly every damn word to do so. The thoughts were still fleeting, still consuming, still chaotic. How would he ever be able to relay it all?

“The beginning is usually the best course,” Hosea didn't seem taken aback at admission. Almost seemed to be prompting, leading him along. “Tell me now; where were you before all this happened?”

Charles closed his eyes, chasing away the dreary visions, focusing on where his day had started. North of Rhodes, near Mattock Pond. Hunting; he had been hunting. Taima had been laden with pelts, and he had taken those pelts to sell in Saint Denis. He let out a breath, raising his head. He could do this; had to do this. Had to get them to understand. 

“Saint Denis; I was in Saint Denis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllloooo all!
> 
> Yes,
> 
> I am aware that I am an awful person! Sneaking in like that with a new (yet another) unplanned story, and leaving a cliffhanger like that. Horrible really...
> 
> But this does make up for it, doesn't it? A bit? I mean, I *didn't* really kill Arthur...
> 
> What a mess though. Still a lot to go through, so hang on tight and let me know what you think so far! Was you speculation correct? Did you honestly think Arthur was dead? And what is going to happen with Micah now? 
> 
> See you folks in a couple of days!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Cities were repulsive.

He remembers Dutch saying that once. They had been strewn about the fire, nursing liquor and licking their wounds from a botched job in a time before Blackwater. The group of them small, split off from the rest of the gang as they had tried to pull off the heist. They had been lucky no one had been killed; Charles had been with them a few weeks at that point, and had still been getting used to the strange dynamics of the group.

It was why he had kept quiet, choosing to listen rather than add to the exchange as the rambunctious posse had traded a myriad of insults, each one blaming the other for the failure. The squabbling had only grown as the night worn on, increasing in enmity, nearly tumbling over into a physical brawl. It was only then that Dutch had admonished them, the man launching into a sermon explaining the virtues of life, his words taming the fire and calming the lot. That was a while back now, the memories faint but still there, and Charles couldn't remember much of that speech. Just that one line.

Cities were repulsive.

That line was reverberating through his head as he trekked through the bustling streets, and he couldn't agree more. The air here was thick and heavy, a different kind of weight than the mugginess that surrounded Clemens point. It felt oppressive, almost suffocating, the narrow and busy streets doing little favor to ease his apprehension. Why he had decided to come here was beyond him. In retrospect it had _seemed_ like a good idea at the time.

The morning had been calm and cool, a gentle crispness. A faint breeze had toyed with the leaves, pulling at hair loosened from his braid. Hunting had been good, the tender promise that things might actually be looking up for once residing within his chest. Food had been scarce, made only more so by recent events, and Pearson had been doing his best with the meager rations brought his way. It would do everyone well to have some hearty food fill their bellies once more. And the pelts, sturdy and fine, would fetch a decent price. Money for the box, the camp thin on supplies and in desperate need of finance.

Keeping twenty people going was not an easy chore. Every little bit helped; that knowledge still brewed inside of him. He allowed it come forth and console him as he hitched Taima outside of the market. He had heard news of a trapper within the sprawling city, far closer than the one found up north. Convenience was what led him here. Though it was a decision he was quickly regretting.

Repulsive was not the only word he would choose for this place.

If he thought Rhodes and their ignorance was bad, then this place was a thousand times worse. Sickeningly so. There was wealth here, as well as poverty, the two differences so stark in comparison it was haunting. People starving on the streets while the rich lauded their exuberance, the divide almost comical. And their distasteful manners weren't limited to the vagrants that clustered on the street corners. Charles could feel every set of eyes that flicked his way, could hear every indecent murmur filtered out between clenched teeth.

He shouldn't have been surprised.

After all, he had grown up in a world that barely tolerated him. It had grown his skin thick, quieted his words, and kept his temper reigned. A tactic which kept him alive in a land that wanted him gone. Pride only got a man so far, until it got him killed. So he learned fast, he learned sure, and taught himself to ignore those minute glances, those petty words.

He could ignore them; but it didn't make them hurt any less.

So he kept his focus, and moved fast. In and out. The exchange took place quickly. Here the pelts sold for less than they would have up north. A bitter loss. Charles had spent time up that way, had become better acquainted with the man who had set up camp near Riggs Station. Friendly even. The trapper there liked his work, and always gave him a fair price for his efforts. He had not been given the same courtesy here, but money was money, and the urge to vacate this dreadful place was far greater than the urge to stay and chaffer. So he had taken the petty earnings, had turned to the wind, had gotten himself out of that dreary city.

If he never came back here it would be too soon.

Camp had been a welcome thought. While he had enjoyed these past several days away, the allure of amiable company was like a siren's call, beckoning him to race across the stretches and back into familiar territory. A temptress he had to avoid. He had made the lengthy trip around bayou for a reason. The Lemoyne Raiders were a conspicuous lot, easily recognized, and he had seen them clustering in groups about the bridges and checking travelers as they passed by. Tangling with them was ill-advised even in groups, and alone it would all be but a death sentence. So he fought that desire within him, turning Taima to the north, and prepared himself for the long ride back.

As the buildings faded, scattering out into ramshackle huts, he could feel himself breathe a tad easier. Gone was high society, the judgmental looks, a rougher more downtrodden populace slogging through daily tasks; more focused on completing chores than to who was riding on by. Charles much preferred it that way, head held high as he followed the wooden road that ran the length of the river and over marshy land. He would turn west once he passed the border, make his way through the swamps and circle back towards camp once he crossed the Kamassa River.

It was a fair ride, but Taima was quick, and her stamina unmatched. It had been built from years of hunting buffalo, trailing the massive herds over vast distances, and she had yet to falter. He wanted to push her, to unleash her true potential, to let the wind wash over them both and chase away the stench of that abhorrent place they had left behind. To keep going to where the fields were open and wide, where there was grass instead of stone adoring the ground beneath their feet.

Cities were repulsive.

How right Dutch had been. Charles closed his eyes, forcing himself to let go of those bitter memories. He had no need of them; in a few days perhaps he wouldn't even remember what had gotten him so wound up. Yes...they never held on for long. Couldn't afford to hold onto them for long. He opened his eyes.

Only to frown at the sight before him.

He curbed Taima, pulled her off to one side as he watched the misshapen form wriggle and squirm, inching its way across the road. Lengthy limbs reaching out, shakily clawing at the dirt, dragging itself forward, so heavily laden in mud there was hardly any distinguishable features about it. Other travelers had crossed in front of it, pulling away and giving whatever it was a wide breadth. It left a foul taste in his mouth, that anger from earlier slowly creeping back in. There was no camaraderie here either, it seemed. These folk were no better than the lot he had left behind in the midst of the city. So willing to pass by and not even give this poor soul a second glance.

He let out a sigh. Camp would have to wait a little longer it seemed. Taima let out a snort, head tossing and hoof digging at the ground as Charles dismounted. A hand to her side calmed her, ears turning towards his gentle voice as he made his way towards the hapless individual. He used that same gentle tone as he approached, hands held out to the side to indicate he meant no harm. A futile gesture; he doubted this person could even see him, what with all the mud that caked him.

The individual had made it halfway across the road by now. Slowly traversing west, entire body shaking with sputtering coughs, flecks of mud falling off in clumps, a clear trail left in his wake, highlighting the journey he had already made. Charles turned, eyes tracing the sloppy indents that stretched clear back to the muddy banks of the river. This man, whoever he was, had somehow managed to pull himself from the shore and over the railway, to where he was now. And seemed hellbent on continuing, despite his desperate situation.

Close as he was now, Charles could see the rope that bound him. It explained the odd movements, his legs fastened tight, another length of rope dragging behind him, still secured to a single wrist. There was no mistaking it; someone had tried to kill this man. And not in a pleasant way. Whatever words Charles tried to say to calm the individual were lost, the man focused seemingly on only one goal, still crawling, still dragging himself, inch by inch across the road. More travelers had passed by, each one grimacing, some glowering, hurrying along as though to get away as quickly as they could and leave the unsightly vision behind.

Seemed like he was on his own then. Charles forced himself to move, one hand reaching out to grip a muddied leg, the other drawing free his knife. The blade was sharp, and he made quick work cutting through the length of rope that held him fast. There was a guttural sound, broken by a cough, almost animalistic in nature at the gesture. Charles reassured the man, did his best to let him know everything was going to be fine as he moved once more. Closer to the man's head, reaching out to grab his wrist, to pull the rope free.

He had lightning fast reflexes.

The hand shot out, fingers wrapping about the collar of his shirt, the strength behind that grip immeasurable. Almost dragging him forward. Or perhaps an effort to pull himself up. Whatever the case may have been it was enough to topple him. Charles barely caught himself before he fell onto the prone man, knife forgotten, hand reaching up instead to grip at the fingers that had wound themselves desperately within the folds of his shirt. Tried, in vain, to peel them free. A curse breaking free of his lips.

He didn't want to hurt this man. Didn't want to inflict any more pain or horror upon him than what he already presumably endured. But he would if necessary; if it came down to it. He had to calm this man down, had to make him understand he was here to help. Charles did his best, forced himself to keep talking, to keep his words calm despite the uptick in his heartbeat, one hand fully wrapped around the man's fingers that clutched him still, the other flat on the ground, legs working to get underneath him, trying to find some sort of balance.

The man himself was sputtering, choked words tumbling out of his mouth faster than his lips could form the sounds, the end result a barrage of indistinguishable sounds. And yet, there was something unsettling about them. Something that toyed with his subconscious. There was something about the manner of his speech, his accent, the rough articulation in what little had been said. Something that sparked an odd familiarity deep within him. That spark ignited into cold disbelief mere seconds later.

Because even through all that mud and grime, he recognized those eyes.

Eyes that were wide set and warped in aberration. Clouded in a haze of pain but driven by something more primal, something ravenous. Searching wildly, blinking incessantly, half-focused on him, lips drawn back in a snarl, barking out a word that sounded more like a slur. Driven by anger.

“ _Micah.”_

It was enough to get him moving. Charles wrapped an arm around his torso, helping to pull him up. No longer caring about the filth he was drenched in, that was slowly drenching him. The calm demeanor he had kept thus far was faltering, heart pounding deafeningly inside him, his chest tight and aching. His thoughts a jumbled mess, each question he tried to formulate dissipating as another new concern or worry crept forth. He shouldered his weight well enough; could feel each stumble, each shaky step, could hear the ragged breaths, the way his chest rattled. All broken up by coughs and gags; at one point his body had seized, nearly bent in half, Charles having to stoop to accommodate as the man retched. A putrid stench wrinkling his nose as murky bile coated the ground. Charles fought down his own nausea, nearly hauling the man the rest of the way, settling him down under a lone tree, easing him against the trunk.

“Arthur?” he pulled at the man's fingers that were still deeply wound in his shirt. He hadn't let him go; despite the state he appeared in, beaten and feeble, half-drowned, his strength was unmatched. His eyes had closed, head leaned back, deep and uneven breaths racing through him as his chest hitched.

It made no sense.

Last he knew, Arthur had been back at camp still recovering from his ordeal with Colm. Had last seen him days ago, the man just getting back to his feet when last they parted. So what the hell was he doing way out here? Alone? How had he ended up in this mess?

A thousand thoughts raced through his head. Each one worse than the last. Dark apparitions filling his head, only to be replaced by new unsettling visions. An ambush at camp, a job gone foul, their elaborate scheme discovered and this was their response. Each one possible and yet implausible. It shook him to his very core, left a sickly feel deep within his gut.

Charles did his best to ignore it, reaching up with a hand, attempting to wipe away some of the muck that plastered his face, achieving little more than smearing it further into his skin, into his hair. His fingers came back warm, the coppery residue almost undetectable beneath all that mud. Shit.

“Micah,” the man rasped again, head lifting, brow furrowed, eyes murky but searching, attempting to focus on him.

“Charles,” he corrected the man, turning to glance over his shoulder. Taima perked up at the whistle, trotting across the road, nose pressed against his shoulder as she neared. Try as he might he could not get Arthur to let him go, and so had stopped his attempts, set to deal with it instead. The reach was awkward, painful almost, but he managed to snag the waterskin, his attention turning back towards him.

The water was warm, a stark contrast to his chilled skin, a feeble attempt to wash away the worst of the grime. Arthur was shaking, a slight tremor in his stead, eyes closing again as a few more ragged coughs worked their way forward. Chest heaving as he fought for breath. Words stuttered as they were forced out.

“ _Micah._ ”

“Arthur,” he let out a worried sigh, hand dropping by his side as he leaned close. Reached out to touch the man on the chin, to direct his blurry gaze to land on him. Needed to get him to calm, needed to get him to focus, needed for him to understand. “You see me? It's Charles; you remember me?”

It worried him. Disturbed him in more than one way as to why the man presumed he was Micah. He could see the gash on his head better now, knew that surely it had something to do with it, that it had left him dazed, but even so-Arthur calling out for Micah was perplexing. Oil and water those two were, Micah the polar opposite of everything Arthur was. He could barely tolerate the man; a truth for most of the people in camp if he was being honest. He watched as the man blinked, spitting a curse as his face tightened.

“Damn it...no.”

Felt his chest tighten a little more at that, the bile heavy in the back of his throat. That hit must have been something hard for sure to have left him this disorientated. Something they could work on, he knew. Something they could fix given the time. He had to make that time. Camp then, he had to get him back to camp. Went to pull him to his feet, soft reassurances that everything _would_ be okay.

He didn't make it. Arthur's true strength showed easily, overpowering him, pulling him back down to the ground. Voice garbled and words angry, another bitter curse slipping out between the coughs.

“Listen,” he breathed, “Micah-”

“Micah's not here,” he tried to switch tactics. Tried to get him to see reason. But Arthur would not be swayed, his face twisting into an angry snarl despite the distress he was in.

“God d-damn bastard,” his voice nearly a hiss. “H-he...h-have to st-stop him.”

For a moment the world stood still. His heart racing within his chest the only thing he could focus on. Gross comprehension was sinking in. Uncertainty as thick as the mud coating them both was clouding his senses. He couldn't breathe.

“Arthur?” he had to pause, had to chase after thoughts that were racing away like hound dogs downing prey. “Are you saying Micah did this?”

He didn't think it was possible.

Not really.

Micah was a nuisance, nothing more, he reminded himself. He was the fly that buzzed around them on sweltering summer days, pestering them all, but immune to their attempts to shoo him away. Had instead found a lovey patch of filth to burrow in and call home, safe and sound under Dutch’s protection. What the man saw in Micah no one could rightly say, but Charles knew that it wasn't their place to say anything, It wasn’t their call to make, and so they had learned to live that nuisance, had learned to ignore that incessant buzzing. He was surely a pest...but not a threat.

Or so he thought.

Because, as he well knew, even flies could bite. That little doubt stayed there, grew, became irritating and coarse, growing ever louder and ever-incessant, demanding his attention.

He didn't think Micah would.

But he could.

And that was enough to set Charles on edge. He swallowed, watching Arthur, and waiting. Waiting for a confirmation. For a denial. For _something._ But whatever vendetta the man had been chasing after had seemed to fizzle, a strange pallid complexion washing over him instead. His breathing had hitched, jaw set tight, eyes closing. The faint warning there before he retched once more, more of the putrid water spewing forth, coating the front of him, and barely missing Charles. He frowned, lips drawn tight, one hand resting the man's shoulder, easing him back against the tree, giving him a few moments. Watched as his chest rose and fell, broken by stuttered breaths. Then he cleared his throat, waiting for bleary eyes to wrench open once more, an unsteady gaze settling on him.

“Micah did this..?” he asked, hesitant, doubt and desperation rolling through every word. If Micah had done this, if he had so brutally betrayed the gang and tried to see Arthur dead, they all were in danger, and Charles had to act. But if he hadn’t, if Charles bought into the pain-fueled delusion brought about by Arthur’s ailing mind, he might be the one accused of treason instead. It would end in his own banishment at best, his death at the worst. Uttering such thoughts was not a wise idea at all, not without proof.

But this was Arthur. To ignore his agonized pleas, to brush off his dire warning as the ramblings of a dying man, well, that might be only more foolish. The fact remained that someone had left Arthur to die, and the only name the man could muster was Micah’s.

He needed answers, answers that Arthur was in no shape to give.

Silence hung in the air between them, Arthur blinking slowly, almost dumbfoundedly as though he had forgotten why he was even here. Charles pressed again, words slow, question pointed and direct, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“Arthur. Did Micah do this to you?”

Arthur swallowed, eyes flicking away, staring off into the distance. Struggling with his own words, voice still rough and coarse as he muttered a new word. One that curdled his heart and froze his already icy interior.

“Hosea...”

Hosea would never. Could never. Not even for the briefest of moments. And it left him in a state of worry, of apprehension. By now, Arthur was making no sense, if he had ever made sense. Whatever memories he was grasping onto were clearly jumbled, leaving him a confused mess. And at this point, Charles couldn’t tell if he was asking for Hosea or if he was attempting to blame the man as he had done with Micah. If he had even been trying to blame Micah in the first place. He winced as Arthur barked out the older man’s name again, a little louder this time, a little more agitated. He placed a hand back on the man’s cheek, turned his head so he was staring into the cerulean eyes that were dulled with pain.

“Hosea’s not here,” he pressed him softly, going with what his gut was telling him.

The last time Arthur had called after the man in that tone was after his return from the O’Driscolls, when he was so riddled with sepsis and burned so hot with fever, they all feared those might be his last words. From what Charles had gathered, Hosea and Dutch were all Arthur had left; he didn’t see fit to pry into the man’s past any further.

And it had been Dutch and Hosea who had been there for him during trying times, and it was them he would be calling for now.

“Hosea,” Arthur argued quietly, words slurring now, mind struggling to stay coherent.

“No Hosea,” Charles held his gaze, “Just me. We’re going to get you taken care of, alright? Just...just stay with me.”

“Have to warn him,” he muttered softly, fingers releasing his shirt, gripping his arm instead. His voice had tightened, and for a moment there was a patch of lucidity that crept forth. “He-he’s gonna hurt him.”

“Who?”

Charles clung onto that brief moment. Tried to get Arthur to stay with him long enough to get the thought all the way through. The man grimaced, face dropping into a snarl, nearly spitting as he forced the word out.

“Micah...”

Back to Micah again. The pieces jumbled, but slowly coming together. Arthur, in all his misery, was adamant that Micah was somehow at fault for this. Was somehow convinced that Hosea was in trouble. The thought did not set well with him, squeezing his already tight chest, breathing far more difficult than it should be.He didn’t know what to do.

His thoughts dwindled, new concerns taking place as he listened to Arthur’s wheezing, the strangled and garbled breaths as he let out low moan.

He needed to get back to camp; to warn the others. He had to talk to Dutch, had to figure out what to do next. But Arthur...he looked at Arthur, noting the paleness there, watching the way life seemed to slowly drain out of his listless face, listening to each labored heave of his chest, and he knew. Knew that Arthur most likely wouldn’t survive the trip back.

And even if he _could_ get the man back to camp, if he thought Arthur could hold out long enough to get back to camp, what then?

Micah, no doubt, would come unhinged at the sight. If Arthur was coherent, if his accusations were accurate, then the man had somehow lured Arthur away from camp, had managed to attack him in broad daylight, and dump his body to slowly rot and fester without a care or concern in the world. A man so dangerous and bold to do something as that, would act as though he were cornered like a rabid dog. There would be no telling what Micah would do when faced with evidence of his failure.

Nothing good. Charles knew that much.

He swallowed, glancing about the area. Ignored the travelers that shot the pair a repulsed look as they rode by. Camp might not be an option, but Saint Denis was. The very place he despised was now going to be his salvation. Provided they could get there. Arthur had seemingly given in, energy spent, and perhaps consoled by the fact _someone_ had understood what he had been trying to say. He might be satisfied, but for Charles it only sent a shock of dread racing through him.

They had to move, and soon. He gripped Arthur’s shoulder, went to ease him up, to pull him into a standing position. Stopped at the cry that was wrenched from his lips, eased him back down. More blood, fresh blood, coated his hand. Wet and sticky and warm. He let out a curse, moving closer.

The jacket was difficult to peel back. The shirt proved even more of a challenge, the mud more like glue, all but plastered against his skin. But he pulled it far enough away, enough for him to see the jagged wound there. His back was coated in blood, shirt far too saturated to hold any more liquid. He had to get him dry, had to get him clean.

“Come on, Arthur,” he breathed, grabbing at his arm this time. The man watched him warily, grunting at the treatment, eyes slipping closed. Charles let out a curse, shouldering his weight as best he could. Damn he was heavy.

“Stay with me,” he chided, mind racing, trying to find something to keep him engaged. Words were hard enough for him, let alone thoughts, but he had to try. The idea settled in his mind as they reached Taima’s side, a spark growing into a flame as he slowly encouraged Arthur into the saddle.

“Where’s your horse, Arthur?” The question came easily, easier than getting the man upright at any rate. He dumped the kill he had taken earlier, the realization that camp would continue to go hungry festering in his mind. He couldn’t worry about that now, banishing the thought as he pulled himself up, settling behind and pulling the man back to rest against his chest. Heavy, almost dead weight, the man on the brink of collapse. “Where’s Hera?”

Arthur peeled his eyes open at that, roused by the name of his beloved companion. Charles had seen first hand the sheer abundance of work and adoration the man had poured into her; a frightful, skittish thing mere months back. Hera had blossomed into a fiercely loyal steed, quick and steadfast, hopelessly bonded to her man. Her speed was unmatched; she had even beat The Count in a race, a feat unimaginable for any other horse.

The pair was thick as thieves, rarely separated, and now she was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur muttered something, words sloppy as he sighed. Charles had to prompt him again, turning Taima towards the city, his heart still racing.

“Swamps,” came the mumble, words scarce more recognizable. “Job there...’ear a bridge...”

The swamps, near a bridge...didn’t exactly narrow it down. Something he would worry about later, pressing Taima as much as he dared. Kept trying to encourage the man, to keep him talking. He did, only just, words making less sense until they all but faded away. The looks he got this time were far more vulgar, the curses and shouts as he tore through the streets far more crude. They were far easier to ignore this time, his entire world narrowed down to one objective.

The doctor’s place. An alluring sight within a dark and dismal place. Arthur nearly collapsed, just about pulling the both of them down as he slid from the saddle, his legs stumbling beneath the added weight. Breaths heavy in his ear as he moved, slowly carrying him inside. He had braced himself for more of the same treatment, the same sort of apathy he had faced on the streets.

And fully surprised to not receive any of it.

Kind, caring words instead. The doctor held a virtuous piece of humanity that had yet to be discovered with the confines of this city. An oasis from the hatred, heavy like miasma just outside. Had ushered him inside, had helped to ease Arthur down into a chair. Questions, like rain, washing down over him, seeping deep into his skin. Questions he couldn’t answer, questions he couldn’t rightly explain. The lie coming off easily, foisting the blame off on the Lemoyne Raiders who were no strangers to these parts. A wise choice, seeing the volatile grimace that creased his face. Several long minutes passed, the question resting in the depths of his mind, his lips unwilling and unable to form the words, reduced to merely watch instead.

Somehow, finally, he had managed. Managed to ask the question he was so desperate for an answer. And yet so afraid to know.

“ _Will he be alright?”_

Even now the doctor’s response echoed in his mind. Left him hollow and unsure. The story had been difficult to relay, the sourness burning in his throat. It felt as though he had been punched, a blow deep within his gut, muscles there taunt and tender. An ache he couldn’t quite purge.

“I didn’t—” he started, had to pause, to gather himself again. All three had watched, quiet and nerved while the story had been told. The silent hatred on John’s face, the troubled expression that accompanied Hosea. And still, the raw fury that encompassed Dutch’s face. Restrained, but still very much there.

“You see why I had to leave? I- I had to...to warn you.”

He had tried to keep his composure. His demeanor was quickly failing, words thin and desperate. Leaving Arthur there, in that state, was not something he had wanted to do. But if the man’s words were true, and the camp, namely Hosea, was in danger, time was of the essence. His presence there, at the doctor’s, would do no one any favor; there was nothing he could change.

Racing back to camp had caused him to stumble upon Hera. Her discovery in the swamp, still tethered along the road had been an accident, a mere coincidence, but one he took without question. His mind heavy with speculation, that sickly feeling bottoming out as he approached the camp hours later. Unsure of what he would say, of _how_ he would say it. Eyes drifting, tracing the camp, seeing _him_ there. Micah, by the fire; it sent his heart racing all the more. He had tried to talk to Dutch and Hosea privately. Had tried to draw them inside, to keep it quiet.

But Dutch hadn’t been inclined to move. Hadn’t seemed bothered by his agitated state. And Micah...he could see Micah moving, making his way towards them, face pale and eyes narrowed as though he _knew_. The simple act reassuring him that the man _did_ know, something.

And the lie had come easily. Words falling off his lips, mind made up. Ready and willing to follow through with the lie despite the unfavorable position it put him in. And it had worked, better than he had anticipated. And now….now they were here, locked in a silent standoff. Dutch’s fury hadn’t abated, but his gaze had, had moved from him, staring openly into the nothingness that surrounded them.

He waited for Dutch to speak, for him to say something. _Anything._ Whether it be more accusations, more denial, an acceptance of his apology or the simple words of appeasement. The silence, this silence, was something he couldn’t handle.

In the end it was Hosea who spoke. He was the one who shattered the unbecoming reticence, nudging Silver Dollar back onto the road and taking lead. Hardly gave a look back to see if they were following.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go see our boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Charles tells the rendition of how he found Arthur. Completely unexpected, the poor guy just wants to go home and get some rest and now he's dealing with all of this. Rough time for everyone!
> 
> The question now...what do they do? Do they believe him? What do you think?
> 
> See you in a few days!!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - some graphic description of strangling towards the beginning

His head was pounding.

Felt as though it was ready to split open. Drink had done little favor to help that, but he was certain that most of the cause had been from all the caterwauling that raced through the air. Yet time passed, and those ear-piercing shrieks were reduced to muttered prayers and subdued sniffles, the sorrow slowly scattering to the wind, leaving the camp in terse silence.

Grief wasn’t the only thing to disperse, he noticed. With tears spent, and voices worn rough, almost everyone had turned in for the night. And those wayward souls who hadn’t, had collected on the shores of the lake, their voices quiet and indistinct, but nonetheless he knew they were talking about _him._ An enlightening topic, he was certain. 

Micah finished off another bottle, content. Not drunk, not sober: somewhere in between, with a slight buzz that tickled his senses and left him with an elated feeling. Things had gone _better_ than planned. The spoils of his victory almost tangible, a jubilation dancing within his soul. The first of many steps successful.

Truthfully he hadn’t expected this, at least not this suddenly. He had presumed it would take a few days before he heard anything. Before anyone noticed the man missing. Before Dutch would round up a group, send them out searching. They would spend days, no doubt, their desperate attempts to find the man occupying their every moment. Only to come up empty handed. For nothing to be found. Questions to where he had gone, to what had happened lingering in the air. Questions he had answers ready for, but now, shamefully, he would never get to use.

At first it had upset him. After all, he had spent many of days with Dutch, convincing the man that something wasn't right in how Morgan always took off, always disappeared. Had wanted to rattle the man, to shake his confidence, to make him question and fully believe the words he said were true. Had planned on keeping that blame, to weave an elaborate story of betrayal. And now, instead of traitor, he was a martyr, a lost soul to be mourned rather than execrated.

Frustrating, no doubt, but with reflection he came to realize that this was potentially a good thing. He believed that this was better, that this was…perfect. To place the blame on the raiders, those irritants that had troubled them since moving down this way, was beautiful. Charles had given him a gift, had cast all suspicion off of him and onto a an unlike source.

He should be grateful. He was; mostly. But despite how well things had gone, there was still a sourness that lingered inside of him. Micah was annoyed. Frustrated with how things had gone in response to the news of Morgan's death.

Dutch should have jumped at the chance purse his enemy. To tear those raiders limb from limb. He should’ve leapt at the opportunity for revenge. To rally the gang and bring in the big guns, to end things here and now.

Micah relished in such confrontations . Nothing got the blood pumping like a good ol' gunfight after all. It was a n art that was nearly lost in today’s age, a beauty that he revealed in, the inexplicable feeling of raw power that was unmatched. It was a itch that remained unscratched from petty heists and meager jobs. Given the chance to gun someone down, or to swindle them blind, he would always go with the former.  _Always._

And yet he had been denied that one simple pleasure. The bloodlust that had ignited within the group at the announcement had all been extinguished by now, tears instead of rage filling the air. A pathetic lot, if anyone asked him. Their tempers had been soothed by Dutch, who in turn had been manipulated into apathy by Matthews.

Hosea Matthews. Yet another thorn in the man’s side.

Not as deep as Morgan had been. Not as troublesome. More akin to a splinter, he supposed, lodged in at the surface. Still a problem no matter how one looked at it. He ran a thumb over the lip of the empty bottle, vague images dancing in his head, flickering like the firelight off the glass in his hand. The rest of his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, a fist held tight, squeezing, imagining instead that it was Matthews within his hold.

Face pale, lips tinged blue, already feeble lungs gasping, fingers clawing, raking new wounds on his skin, down the length of his arm. New injuries he would have to somehow have to explain, but hardly worried about it the moment. All he could see, all he could focus on was the way his eyes bulged, the way his mouth gaped, the pulsing beneath his hand fading, growing ever weaker until it ceased to exist. His limp and lifeless body dropping to the ground. Deep bruises circling his neck where the hold had been. A beautiful sight indeed.

But it was little more than a pretty fantasy. He blinked, the vision fading, watching the fire crackle and spit before him. The thought tantalizing, yet elusive.

Because he knew that he would never be able to get that close. Would never find the opportunity to be alone with him. The man was wise, far wiser than Dutch in many ways. Dutch, for all his grandeur, was quite simple. Micah could easily cajole him with simple whispers in man’s ear until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, well into all hours of night and till the first rays of morning and the man would indulge him. But Matthews…Mathews didn’t trust him in the least. He would not be swayed by simple words. Micah's charm, his ideals- all of it was lost on the older man.

Even from the beginning he had been shunned. He would never forget that day, racing out of the town after saving Dutch's life, only to arrive at camp to an angry Matthews. The man warning Dutch that he was a loose cannon, that he was a blight in the midst of all that was good, as though he was some sort of plague unleashed. Micah could also remember lashing out, striking like a snake, an angry retort all of his own falling from his lips. A mistake then; he had learned to reign that fury in. Had spent that evening groveling and begging for forgiveness.

Forgiveness that was easily given. Saving Dutch's life had secured his place with the infamous man it seemed, but he had been warned. Had learned to hold his tongue. Conversing with Matthews only when necessary. The truth was that they hadn’t shared more than a handful of sentences since that day, and what little they did exchange wasn't pleasing in the least. Seemed as though Matthews could very well say what he pleased without repercussions. Micah wasn't a fool; he hadn’t missed the nasty rumors floating around, the whispers about the old fool attempting to rid the gang of his presence. Pressing Dutch to cut him loose. Lucky for him, Dutch didn't seem so swayed by the old man as rumors led him to believe.

From what he heard, the man used to be what Micah yearned to become; the voice in Dutch’s ear, calling the shots from behind the scenes. The brains of the operation. Matthews, he knew, might have once been a feared adversary; no doubt he had been a trusted friend, a unwavering strength within the gang. Years had changed him though, reduced him to a sniveling, frail old man, his ideals long outdated, his empathy more suited for the weak in a world that was changing. They needed ferocity, not ambivalence, if they were to survive and flourish. This thought was like a bitter seed inside of him, slowly growing, slowly reaching. If anyone were to ask him, this gang was long overdue for new leadership.

Even so, despite all that had transpired, it seemed that Matthews still had some sway over Dutch’s actions. He was somehow able to persuade the man to certain morals. No doubt that Matthews was using this time away to his benefit, already satiating the man, appeasing his worries and assuaging his concerns. Smoothing and filling in the cracks that had formed from the so called devastating news. Hosea would probably be using Morgan’s death as a reason to convince Dutch to pull back, to lie low, to keep their noses clean. The god damn fool. He frowned.

The group had yet to return, and mostly likely wouldn’t until sometime the next day. He could see it his mind, envisioned them hunkering down near the grave and swapping stories of their youth, of the ventures they had held, of the so called ‘good times’... the world’s shortest story, no doubt. Still it incensed him. The irritation gnawing at him, nipping as his mind. 

He should be there. _He_ should be the one advising Dutch. Spurring him on, emphasizing the need for action. To become more aggressive, to take while they still had the opportunity. Sitting here, waiting, doing nothing, that was for the weak. For the submissive. Matthews was so willing to sit and wait until the noose was strung about their necks, pulled tight and ready to hang them all before spurring to action. His beliefs, his desires, would put them all in danger. Micah let out a bitter curse.

“I have to admit, I didn't see this in you,” Javier broke through his thoughts, the man watching him from across the fire. He had taken vigil there, had been lost in his own thoughts. Had for a time, strummed his guitar, attempting to sing a few songs, but the words had all but caught in his throat. Instead calloused fingers plucked at the strings, strumming bitter notes that hung heavy in the night. Micah scowled, lowering the bottle that had consumed his thoughts.

“Pardon?” 

He must have said it nastier than intended. Javier’s brow furrowed, a sharpness in his eyes as he frowned. “Well, just you and Arthur never seemed to get along. And now...well, you’re nearly drowning yourself over there.”

Micah’s gaze dropped, counting the bottles strewn around the fire. Perhaps he had taken more in than intended, unable to stop himself from relishing in the sweetness. He hadn’t paused to think on how it would look to the others, but if they preferred to see his celebration as a lamentation, then that could only work in his favor. He let out a sigh, putting on his best mournful voice that he could muster.

“Grief does strange things,” he muttered. “It’s true that Morgan and I didn’t see eye to eye. I should have tried harder to get along, to understand him. But despite our differences he was still a brother and he will be missed.”

Play the part, he reminded himself. If only for a few more days. Soon enough they would all move on and if luck was truly with him, most these fools here wouldn’t even remember, too drunk in their own sorrow to scrutinize his reaction. Javier let out what sounded like a snort, a few more notes plucked sourly, strings reverberating until he clamped a hand over them.

“Still...don’t go drinking yourself to death; Dutch is going to need all of us at our peak moving forward.”

That Dutch would. And he intended to be; the vulnerability this incident had cause would undoubtedly shake the man. If he played his cards right, then he would be right by the man’s side, washing away that grief, encouraging him to look towards the future. Towards Blackwater, and the money that lay there. Convince him to speed back to where they belonged. Being here, being this far south, wrapped up in the stink of swamp and sweltering in the heat was the last place they should be. Yet the question of how he would accomplish that still troubled him.

A part of him, one that was depraved and farcical mused that he could use Morgan's death to spur Dutch towards this desire. After all, Morgan had never wanted to come this way, had always longed for the west. Had complained about it enough that his words could be recited from memory. Now that trivial detail could work out in his favor, he figured. Micah could spin it as honoring the man's last wish, could play up the lamentation as much as needed. Tug at Dutch's scruples, play on the man's conscience. Yes...how poetic  _that_ would be. He felt sick. 

Perhaps he had had too much to drink.

He set the empty bottle down, mind whirling with new thoughts, plans tangling with one another, words trying to string themselves together so that he would be ready when Dutch returned. The longer he waited, the more damage he would have to undo. After all, who  _knew_ what Matthews was spewing into his ear. Nothing favorable. How in the hell was he supposed to make  _any_ progress with that senile piss stain hanging about? He growled, longing for another drink. Wondering if it was wise. The he stilled. The idea coursing through him like a flicker of lightning. 

Suddenly it seemed too simple. The idea, minuscular at best, coming to light just then. Javier's words present, fanning the flame there, letting it grow. 

Could it really be that easy?

He cast his gaze around, taking note of his surroundings. Camp was blissfully quiet. Only a few souls remained awake. Most of whom were currently drinking themselves stupid along the shores of the lake. The opportunity perfect. If not now...then when? The longer he waited, the more difficult it would become. The idea was growing, latching on and refusing to let go. Morgan being gone was a godsend, but if he could rid himself of Matthews as well...

He let out a breath.

After all this time he had convinced himself that the easiest way was to rid of Matthews was during a shootout. During one of their raids, or perhaps a squabble with the O'driscolls. One too many bullets flying in the heat of battle. What was one more? If done right, no one would suspect a thing, would simply chalk it up to an ill omen. After all, people got shot; people died. The cost of the lives they lived. It was just a matter of time. Of waiting.

But Matthews didn't seem so inclined to leave. The few times he had, the man was always with Dutch or Morgan. Hunting, fishing, play cribbage...whatever it was the man never seemed eager to place himself in the heat of battle. The man couldn't very well be gunned down in a fight if he abstained from even getting into them. That in itself was a complication.

The closest he had come to being hurt had been that one incident at the saloon. From what he heard, both he and Morgan had been caught in the fray of a petty dispute. Matthews had taken a fall off the balcony, had caused quite a stir. Micah had watched from a distance as both Dutch and Grimshaw fussed over upon his return.

And Matthews hadn't left camp since then. Had chosen to avoided involving himself in the bloody feud, preferring to stay close and play nursemaid to the women and children. Teaching them to read, to write. As to why was anyone's guess. Disappointing and frustrating, another problem he had been trying to solve. Micah knew well there was nothing he could say or do to draw Matthews out like he had done with Morgan.

But perhaps he didn't need to.

Matthews was old. A shell of his former self, worn down by age, the lines in his face deep and movements slow from all the years of hardship. That cough he had, worse some days, better on others, but there all the same. The damn man complained enough about his ailments that Micah half expected him to just keel over. Not that he would ever be that lucky, he supposed. Of course...he could always help it to happen.

Matthews was a man of habit. In the short time Micah had run with the group, Matthews had always insisted on a routine. Had always collected a handful of herbs, grinding them up in front of the fire, had always proclaimed their superiority over the stuff found in the stores. Had even been teaching some of the women how to make the tonics. What a shame it would be, if one of those tonics weren't so helpful?

The smile played on his face, head bowed in attempts to hide his expression. It was too perfect. His heart skipped a beat. Mind racing, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

He pulled his knife free, thumb running over the blade. There was blood still, Morgan's blood, dried in splotches about the handle. Micah had hastily cleaned it off earlier, more focused on disposing of the man than tending to his weapon. He dug a nail over the metal, scrapping off the coppery flakes, turning it over in his hands, words dripping off the edges of his lips like saliva.

“Got this from my pa,” he said quietly, words tampered, doing his best to sound sentimental, “only thing I got left of him.”

He hadn't thought about his father in years, a vicious and brutal man who had shown him the truth of the world. Micah cared for him about as much as he did the fleas of that mangy mutt the damn child had clung too. Hadn't spent a single moment shedding a tear over him. He wasn't like the rest of this lot; crying did nothing, changed nothing. Tears were for the weak. But still, he was no fool; knew that sentimentalism could help persuade folk from time to time. So he would pretend; for now.

It seemed to be working. Javier was watching him, fingers still plucking idly at the strings. He drew a breath, went on.

“Sharpened the blade so many times there's hardly anything left to it. Still can't bring myself to part with it, but it ain't much good like this. Wish there was something I could do, get a few more years out of it.”

He let the words hang in the air, turning the blade over in his hands, letting the light from the fire glint of the blade. Letting the unasked question hang there. Smiling when Javier spoke, taking the bait.

“You could always coat it in poison,” Javier suggested. “Oleander works; don't even have to cut deep, just enough to draw blood. Poison will work its way in; kill in a few hours, but the effects usually take hold pretty fast. You find yourself in trouble, it can give you the edge.”

“I'm not much of a forager,” Micah admitted dryly, meeting his gaze. Tried to keep the sneer off his face. Tried to play his cards right. Javier might prefer spending his time crawling about on hands and knees collecting flowers, but not him. He watched as the man rolled his eyes, setting the guitar down.

“I've got some you can use, just...give me a moment to find it.”

The smile that graced his face was genuine, Micah's insides burning in delight. Or perhaps that was the liquor talking. Whatever the case, the joy was there. Increasing as the man returned, holding out a pouch. A cluster of leaves, of pink petals inside. So innocent, and yet so deadly. His salvation.

“Just be careful handling it,” the man chided him, as though he were a toddler.

“You don't have to worry about me,” Micah brushed him off, closing the pouch. Made sure to thank him for the consideration, watched as the man relented, retiring for the night. Micah was alone now, the fire crackling before him. That smile grew.

This was too perfect. He held up the pouch; it was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and yet powerful enough to kill a grown man. What wonders nature held. The desire to move, to see this through, urged him on. A tempest brewing inside of him, an amalgamation of apprehension and mettle consuming him. He made himself wait. Ignored that growing desire. Minutes passed, the night still and quiet. He counted to a hundred; waiting, watching, satisfied that all was quiet. 

Only then did he move.

Groaned as he stood. Joints stiff, back sore from sitting so long. Vision wavering...how much had he drank? He normally could hold his liquor. Normally didn't bother him like this, but his steps were awkward, slow, sluggish. He had to pause, had to let the world stop spinning for a moment. A few more steps now.

The lean-to was nearly empty. The bedrolls vacant, spread out on the hard surface. Only the last one occupied, Lenny snoring, sprawled out on his stomach. Micah paused, glancing around, ensuring the coast was clear, then stepped inside. He was hunched over now, both for convenience and because he felt as though he was going to topple over at any given moment. The crate was near the back, settled against the cloth near the head of the first bedroll. He lifted the lid, peering inside.

A row of vials, all nestled there. Six in total, and he worked one out, squinting in the darkness. Matthews was like clockwork. Took half a vial each night before he bedded down. Took another half in the morning if he was real bad.

Slowly he worked the top off, pausing as he glanced about once more. If anyone caught him now, he could feign ignorance, could pass it off as his desire to cure his splitting head. Could say that he normally would ask, but with Matthews gone he had to take matters into his own hands. But his fears were unfounded. Lenny still slept, unaware of his presence, and the others hadn't returned from the lake.

He pulled out the pouch, setting it on the ground. Heart pounding in his head.

Deft fingers reached in, dug out the contents. The foliage rolled between his thumb and finger, a fruity sweet aroma wafting up towards him as he crushed it in his hold, working it till the secretions bled out onto his fingers. Watched as the drops slowly rolled off his skin and into the vial. Repeated the process again, and then a third time. Let the remaining bits of the plant fall in as well.

He wiped his hands off on his pants, recapping the vial. The liquid sloshed as he shook it, thoroughly mixing the contents, a slight foam forming on the top. The grin nearly splitting his face in half. Slowly, carefully, he set it back in the crate. As though it had never been disturbed. Now all he had to do was wait.

They had left quick enough. Didn't seem as though the man had taken anything with him. No doubt the was already missing his daily dose. Upon his return, the man would beeline it for his tent. Down the tonic as soon as possible. Or perhaps he would wait until the night, take it before bedding down, as always. 

He would go in his sleep. Poetic.

The others would suspect that his poor feeble heart had given out from all the stress and all the grief. More sorrow, more wallowing would follow. Another sad blow for the Van der Linde Gang. To lose a son was one thing, but to lose a founder...

Dutch would be heartbroken. Distraught enough that he would forget all of Matthew's foolishness. And he? Micah would be right there, consoling the man. Getting him through these tough times. His rock within the stormy sea, nearly drowned by emotions. Yes...it was all too perfect. 

He went to close the lid, pausing as his fingers gripped the wood, eyeing the rest of the contents. Heart sinking as he looked at the rest of the vials. Three of them were already empty, waiting to be refilled. Three still full of tonics yet to be consumed. What if...what if he didn't take the ill fated one? It could be days before he consumed it. Days in which he could work with Dutch, pry at the man, feed him more foolish notions. Days that Micah was certain he could not afford to lose.

No, that wouldn't do.

Mind made up, he reached back in, pulling them out, working fast. In no time he had uncapped them, dumping the contents onto the dirt. Watched with fascination as it seeped into the dry grounds, the relief spreading through him. Now there would be no mistakes. Nothing left up to chance.

Hurriedly he replaced the vials. Quietly set the lid down. Heart racing, breath bursting in his lungs as he glanced around. Lenny still slept. Still unaware. There were still no signs of anyone else. Micah crept back out of the tent. The smile wide on his face as he sauntered over, sitting back down near the fire.

Plans changed, he knew. This was not how he had envisioned things going, but it was wonderful. A true work of art. He fully intended to enjoy the spectacle come the next day when the group returned. Would be watching, would be waiting. Oh, the joy of it all.

He closed his eyes, hat drawn forward to block out the light of the fire. Relished in the comforting warmth. Sleep...he needed his rest, if only to ensure his peak performance come morning.

That same smile still graced his face even as he slipped into blissful restfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, it seems like Micah still has a few plans up his sleeve....
> 
> And thank you, Darling_Jack, for the wonderful insult of 'senile piss stain'. Couldn't have thought that up on my own :)


	5. Chapter 5

There was an unrelenting pressure brewing behind his eyes. A familiar pain, one he was far too acquainted with as of late. It burned just beneath his skin, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Manageable, for now, he knew. But growing all the more as they rode deeper into the foul city, the atmosphere thick and pungent; unpleasant.

He grit his teeth, pushed himself forward, fingers wound tightly about the reigns. The Count's ivory coat clashed with the soot and grime that coated everything around them, the ornery beast tossing its head in agitation as he followed the group through crowded streets.

It was busy. The day fully in swing, a cluster of carriages and wagons obstructing their path, grumbles and shouts echoing through the area. The sharp trill of the horn sounded from the trolley as it clanged on by, adding to the chaos. Further in the distance there was a whistle that cut through the air, signaling the departure of a train. The noise was drowning out all reason, worsening the festering pain.

Folk, dressed up in all their fancy, sauntered out into the street, glaring looks shot their way as though their indignation was fully justified. More than once a curse tossed their way, horses curbed to avoid a collision, the frustration mounting.

He wasn't sure what to think.

Even now, after this long ride here, his thoughts were still in disarray. Bits and pieces floated through his mind, like crumbs of bread scattered atop a pond. Floating just on the surface but unwilling to sink. The full reality of the situation still yet to strike. It felt as though he was barely able to function; simply going through the motions because it was what was expected of him. He was their leader, their mentor. He could not fail them now. So he pushed himself, despite wanting to turn and disappear. To not have to face what was coming.

Charles had taken the lead, and Dutch was more than happy to relent. The man took them through the streets knowingly, his back stiff, posture tense, his face, no doubt, still creased in that worried expression. The same expression that had crossed his face when he first had told them the news. Or more precisely, the lie.

It had fallen like a hammer. Dutch’s world had shattered at those words. Had brought things to a crashing halt. They were words he was so unwilling to believe, shock and disbelief choking him out. Leaving him unable to breathe, the sounds around him unheard as those horrid words sank in. And slowly, ever so slowly the understanding had seeped in. The pain bitter and aching, the knowledge heavy beyond reason, wearing him down thin. Saved only in the end by Hosea.

He had already been on the edge. The day already sour, his agitation ignited by none other than O'Shea who seemed determined to harass him for every fault of his, perceived or not. She had been trying as of late, pestering and needling, her sniveling complaints morphing into spite, lunacy lacing her words. Accusations falling from her lips, only coaxing the fire within. A former shell of what she once was.

He had loved her once. But that love had long fizzled out and her presence now was just a reminder of yet another failure of his. A prelude, perhaps, to the failures yet to come. They, all those people back at camp, used to be close, but time had driven them apart. Time and trial, the losses in Blackwater, both physical and not, being chased ever further, unable to escape, it seemed. Time ticking, slowly slipping through their fingers.

He had been holding on by a thread. A faint strand that had been fraying, patched together by the strength from the others. A truth he would never admit. The truth that it was Hosea, his dear old friend, and Arthur, the man who had been like a son to him, that were keeping him grounded. That foundation had been shaken a time back, almost crumbling beneath him. They had almost lost him, lost Arthur, a few weeks back, his heart dropping at the gruesome memories. But Arthur had gotten better. Arthur had recovered. And now…

Now...

He banished those dark and brooding thoughts. Reminded himself that Arthur _was_ alive. His world slowly rebuilding even though it had been crushed beneath the illusion of deception. Because despite what had happened, alive was better than dead. Arthur was strong, would overcome this...whatever this had been.

He didn't want to blame Micah.

Couldn't bring himself to bestow that sort of blame on him. Dutch assured himself that he knew the man well enough. Micah was rough around the edges, sure, but he was also ambitious, a fine gun who was willing and able to get the job done. There was a fire he saw in him, the same fire he had seen in others, his ferocity a fresh reprieve from all the latent whining and complaining that had filled the air recently. Dutch's certainty in him had never wavered. Micah had been loyal to a fault, had never given him any reason to doubt.

Seemed as though he was the only one that trusted the man.

He had heard plenty of opposition from just about everyone in regards to the man. Knew of the petty hostility that seemed to be reserved specifically for him. It was as though he was a hyena in a pride of lions, ruthless and unrelenting, pestering and clashing with many of the folk. Young and wild, but still very much a key member of the group. Given enough time he would settle, he would learn, he would adapt. But folk had to give him that time.

Now that man was being accused of attempted murder, of betrayal? Those beliefs fed on by nothing more than delusions of a dying man?

Dutch swallowed, cursing himself inwardly. Arthur _was not_ dying. He reached up, nervous fingers adjusting his hat as they rounded a corner.

Despite his earlier anger, he couldn’t bring himself to blame Charles. After all, the man's intentions hadn't been on duping him. Not truly. He had only done what he felt had been the right choice. Had done his best to explain his actions, as opposed to defending them. Hadn't made excuses, had instead relayed the story as best he could. He was just confused, that was all.

Arthur certainly hadn’t helped things.

He loved the man, god knew he did, but Arthur’s cynicism had been testing his patience as of late. Too angry, too bitter, to reluctant. Doubting, and questioning, the frown nearly a permanent fixture on his face. Uncertainty clouding his voice whenever something was asked of him. Age had seemed to make a skeptic out of him, it seemed. Or perhaps he had always been that way and it was Dutch who had become less tolerant of his contention as the years passed. He didn’t rightly know.

What he _did_ know was that Arthur was quick to judge, even quicker to blame. To foist onus unto someone other than himself. Always had an excuse ready, a reason to why things didn't work. Unwilling to accept responsibility. And that small certainty burrowed another crater within in his resolve. Tightened it, cementing the belief in his mind that this was all _somehow_ a misunderstanding.

After all, Charles himself had said that Arthur was half-delirious by the time he had been found. Who knew if the man even had been aware of what he was saying? It hadn't been all that long ago that Arthur had been caught in the throes of feverish thoughts. He knew too well of the fictitious bile the man could drone on about, those memories far too recent to have faded. If Charles had been accurate in regards to his state, then the same could very well be true here.

Dutch had no doubt that someone had set upon him, that someone had done this to him, but they had a countless number of enemies. The list of vile adversaries in wake of all they had done was long and surely growing longer, and any of those fools would see them done in for nothing more than simple twisted pleasure. Surely that was more plausible than story being spun here and now.

Because Dutch knew about the stage. Knew that Arthur had gone with both Bill and Micah. Could only imagine the bickering that had taken place during all of that. In hindsight, the three of them were probably not the best to send off together, but from what he had heard the job had gone just fine. The first bit of real money flowing into camp since before Arthur had taken injury. Both Micah and Bill had confirmed splitting off, taking to their own.

Arthur...knowing Arthur the stubborn bastard had probably gone the long way around, always careful to cover his tracks. Had most likely ran afoul of trouble soon after departing. Had most likely started that trouble himself.

And of course he would fault Micah for it. The man had been the one to learn of the job in the first place. He had been the one to entice Arthur into joining. And Arthur would latch onto that petty detail till the sun went down. It was just how he was.

Even when he was a teen, all those years back, Arthur had a habit of getting into trouble, of starting fights. Starting and finishing, in most cases. And never short on excuses as to who was at fault. Never his, of course. Hosea liked to say that Arthur was wild delinquent; no truer phrase could have been uttered. His escapades and outbursts had left both Dutch and Hosea exhausted in feeble attempt just to keep after him.

He could well remember one particular time, back when Arthur had been around sixteen. Dutch and Hosea had been working a job, one that the boy had little to no interest in, and had no issues in letting them know of that particular fact. Fed up with his antics, they had left him unsupervised in a bar, slipping him a few dollars and trusting that he'd keep himself entertained while they were busy.

He certainly had done that, and more.

They had returned hours later to find the place in shambles; Arthur in the middle, scowling, drenched in liquor. Smeared in some stranger’s blood and coated in bruises, looking very much like a mangy cat. Finger pointing in every direction except towards himself.

Hours of apologies, of contrite words had followed. As had most of the money he and Hosea had earned that night, a few extra slipped towards the barkeep to ensure his silence and not involve the local sheriff. Then the had dragged a drunk and spitting Arthur out of there, had eventually dropped him in the nearby pond to cool his temper.

They hadn't left him unsupervised like that again for a long time.

The memory crept into his mind, a small smile gracing his lips that for so long had been worn down into a scowl. There was humor in that memory, despite how frustrating it had been back then. The boy had cursed and spit something fierce. Determined to get the last word in. Even now, after all these years, if he or Hosea even so much as uttered the incident, Arthur would launch into a tirade about how he truly was the innocent in that ordeal.

Yes...Dutch supposed Arthur _had_ always been like that. The thought warmed him briefly, chasing away the cold that had settled within him as they neared the building. The four of them, he knew, must look a sight. A mixture of worn gentility and coarse rusticity, all clustered together with in the confines of this high society. The ground solid beneath his feet, the roads paved with stone instead of packed with dirt. The larger the city, the further from the wild it became, it seemed. A man’s true nature was stunted here, his life fabricated within these walls. For a brief moment he despised the fact that Charles had taken Arthur here, that he had left him to the mercy of this place. He let out a breath, willing himself to let the bitterness go as hitched The Count to a post and followed the group inside.

It was quieter in here. The din of the city fading behind the closed door. Cool, almost chilly air surrounding them, nipping at exposed skin, sending a chill through him. The man, whom he presumed to be the doctor looking up, fingers fiddling with glasses as he spoke.

“Can I help you-” he paused, eyes focusing in on Charles who had gone up to the counter, Hosea and John shortly on his heels. Dutch found himself unable to move, more inclined to stay near the entrance.

“Oh, you returned,” he seemed to remember him. Not an impressive feat, given Charles was not a man easily forgotten. “I didn’t expect-”

“I brought by my friend’s family, his...” Charles trailed off, looking back towards them all. Unsure of what to say.

“Uncle,” Hosea stepped up easily, hand extended. His voice was warm, cordial, as though this were simply a business trade. Dutch still found himself unable to move, rooted to the tile beneath his feet.

“And cousin,” Hosea rested a hand on John’s shoulder, his act never fumbling in the least. “My brother an I,” there was a look shot his way, “we’re all he has left. His friend here was kind enough to fetch us, tell us a little of what’s happened. We came as soon as we could.”

The doctor nodded, the skepticism easy to see his eyes, but it seemed as though their lie wasn’t prevalent enough for him to call them out on it. His brown eyes remorseful, lips pulled back into a grimace that sent Dutch’s heart into a stutter. It was not a pleasant expression to try and read.

“He’s had it rough, I won’t lie,” the doctor finally admitted. “Barnes, by the way,” he introduced himself before motioning for them to follow through another door.

Somehow he moved, willed his feet to take those dreaded steps. The reluctance building within him. The itch to turn and leave morphing to a full fledged desire. A part of him would rather take on the full force of Lemoyne Raiders singlehandedly than to face what lay beyond that door. But he couldn’t turn away now. Despite what had happened, despite everything, Arthur needed him to be there. He owed the man that much, at least.

The doctor, Barnes, had continued to prattle. The words lost on him, heart deafening in his ears, the dread growing with each step. The hallway long, and unending corridor. And still ending far too soon for his liking, the last to step within the room. A small place, with a single window and a simple bed, one single chair to the side. Hardly big enough for them all, pressed close now, shoulder to shoulder. And Arthur…

Arthur was pale. Stretched out on the bed, unmoving. The sight stealing away what little air remained in Dutch’s lungs. The man’s skin was ashen, his eyes closed, bruises illuminated in stark contrast. Hues of ugly blue and grotesque purple adoring his face. There was a simple cloth wound about his head, slightly tinged with a rustic crimson.

At first glance it seemed as though he had already departed. He was far too pale, far too still, far too different from the last time he had been injured. Coming back from his brief stay with the O’driscoll’s he had been wrought with fever, skin flushed and limbs restless. Hadn’t been able to settle, entangled in depths of one fit after another as his body fought off the sepsis. Hot and angry and raving. And here…

Dutch swallowed, watching as Hosea took a seat near him. Watched as the man reached out, grasping a hand, calling his name. Watched for a sign, any sign, that he had been heard. And yet nothing, not even the faintest of stirring. Truth was, the only indication that Arthur still remained in the land of the living was the rise and fall of his chest, the awful guttural breaths that flooded the air about them.

“He probably won’t come to,” Barnes nodded towards them, “Not for a while, at least. I gave him something for the pain, patched him up the best I could. He’s going to hurt for a while, I assume, but if I’m being honest, I’m more worried about his lungs.”

“What about his lungs?” John had no qualms in being blunt. Whatever look the doctor shot him was unseen, Dutch too focused on watching Arthur to pay attention, but even so he heard the scoff from the man.

“They don’t sound good,” Barnes was just as blunt, but there was a hint of compassion there as well. “If what your friend says is true, and he pulled him out of the Lannahechee-well, it’s not the best water to be drinking, let alone inhaling.”

No….he supposed that much was true. He had ridden the shores enough to have grown accustomed to the stench that wafted from there. Could only imagine the taste. Who knew how much he had consumed, if what Charles had said was accurate. The man had proclaimed that Arthur had been a sight, drenched in the filth, had been unrecognizable. He wasn’t anymore. Seemed as though the doctor had rectified that; there weren’t even faint traces of the mud left behind.

“Well, we appreciate you taking care of our boy,” Hosea’s voice tugged at his attention, Dutch forcing himself to look away from the man’s prone form. There was a warm smile on the older man’s face, sincerity there. “We’ll work on moving him back home soon as we can.”

“He can stay the night,” Barnes responded, the man’s gaze taking them all. Hadn’t missed a beat, however, as he spoke next, “but I’m afraid that I don’t have room for all you to stay.”

“We won’t be,” Dutch reassured him, his voice thin, words coming out before he could think them through. Didn’t miss the edgy glare shot his way, courtesy of Hosea. They would argue later, he knew. Knew the man well enough to know already what he was going to say. Hosea had already admonished him for the lack of his involvement in Arthur’s previous recovery. Seems like it would be the same here.

He couldn’t help it. Dutch could be cold and cruel as the next man, violent tendencies creeping forth when left unchecked, had killed and butchered his fair share of people over the years. Had watched countless of nameless faces perish before his eyes. But when it came to those he cared about...he couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t bring himself to linger in their presence. Preferred to wait, a distance away, until they were recovered. That had been the truth for Arthur, the stench of the rot and wild frenzy of the fever driving him away. It had also been the truth for John, torn and scarred and festering in pain up in the Grizzlies. Had been that way with Annabelle…Dutch swallowed, preferring to not think of that dark memory at the present moment.

Barnes took his leave, had said a few more words, ones that were missed as Dutch clawed his way back to reality. Barely took note of Charles following suit, leaving the three of them alone with the stricken man. Their family; the odd couple and their unruly sons. How often had he heard that?

He turned, looking at Hosea, realizing just then the man had been speaking. The irritation on his face as he repeated himself, clearly at the end of his patience. The earlier charm gone, replaced by a voice that was more direct, more deadly.

“What’s the plan, Dutch?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. John did however, filling the air with a retort, bitterness coating his own thoughts as they spilled forth.

“How about we put a bullet in the back of Micah’s fuckin’ head?”

“We don’t know that it was Micah,” Dutch defended weakly. He had held this argument so many times in his own head he was worn from it all. The two sets of eyes that scrutinized him darkly showed well and true that they did not agree with him in the least. Even more evident as Hosea moved to his feet, releasing his hold on Arthur.

“Stay with him, a moment, will you John? Dutch and I need to have a discussion.”

He didn’t even remember leaving the room. Blinking rapidly, his vision coming into focus and finding himself standing at the end of the hallway, far enough away from straining ears. Hosea watching with a frown, hands on his hips, disappointment resting in his eyes.

“You need to figure this out, Dutch,” the man admonished him, “If Micah did this...” there was anger there, voice tight and hiding none of his emotions. The pain easy to pick up on. This was the second time within a month Arthur had been gravely hurt. They had barely pulled him through the last time after that bad business with Colm, had just started to fall back into a routine of normality, and now…could Micah really have done this? He didn’t want to think it possible, and that disbelief was still winning out.

“I will not hunt down one of our own on on say so of another,” he responded weakly.

Even it sounded hollow in his ears. He wasn't sure why. Had circumstances been different he would have been enraged, ferocity fuming at the very seams of his being. But he clung to that hope, to the assumption that all of this was just a misunderstanding.

“You’re choosing Micah, over Arthur?” the man wondered blatantly, catching his attention. “That treacherous bastard, over _our_ son?”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“Well it sure in the hell sounds that way,” the man hissed.

“Arthur has always exaggerated things, you know this,” he tried to reason with him.

It didn’t work. The frown on his face had deepened, the already established lines wrinkling further as he snarled, his voice barely contained. “Arthur has followed you without question for _twenty_ god damn years, and you won’t even give him the benefit of the doubt?”

Loyalty was everything.

How many times had he said this? How many speeches had he given, practiced through all hours of night and to the early hours of dawn, until the words rolled off his lips in conviction? And Arthur...he let out a sigh, gaze turning back to the door, the one that separated him from the ghastly sight beyond. Arthur had been with him every step of the way. From the very beginning. A dear and trusted friend.

As for Micah…

Part of him liked Micah. Appreciated that raw ambition that flourished beneath his skin. The man had saved his life, had proven his trust time and time again. Had been a solid ally, sniffing out leads and bringing good scores back. Dutch had figured in time that Micah would be one of the front runners of the gang. And now...now he was no longer sure of what to think.

He didn’t want to blame Micah. Didn’t want to think the man was capable of doing such a thing. Of such betrayal. Didn’t want to believe a traitor was running amongst them. Not that this would be the first time it had happened.

No...there had been another. His treachery coming to light purely by accidental means. The anger upon that discovery had nearly consumed Dutch, burning so fiercely that the gun had fired before he could even register what had taken place. He covered his actions by proclaiming that a warning to them all of the consequences of such actions. That had been a while ago. The pain from that ordeal nothing more than a vague memory now.

Still, Dutch had brooded over that one for a while. Mostly he had been angry and frustrated over the simple fact that he had been so blind. That someone he had taken in, someone that he had saved and trusted could so willingly put his family in danger. And now...now that same thing was happening here, if things were to be believed.

Which is why he didn’t want to believe the sincerity of it. Not because it couldn’t be true, but rather because acknowledging the truth would mean admitting that he had been wrong. That he had been so foolishly led astray a second time. The first time he could be forgiven for such failure. For not noticing. The second time?

What a fool he had been. He felt sick. 

That knowledge wasn't even the worst of it. These past few months had been tough on them all, mourning lost members and constantly racing from one safe haven to another, the heat only growing. Everyone already on edge, snapping at each other’s throats. This announcement, he was certain, would only deepen those cracks. Ousting someone as a traitor was not a pleasant thing. But if he was wrong, if this was a simple misunderstanding, it would only serve to divide them further. Would set everyone on edge, always watching, always wondering, distrust brewing at the edges. An unfavorable result, but something had to be done.

Because he couldn’t do nothing; that was an action all on its own. And actions spoke louder than words.

If he did nothing, if he let it all disappear, pretend it never had happened, then Hosea would never forgive him. He knew the man never cared for Micah, had made that abundantly clear. John had as well; hell if Dutch failed to resolve this problem then no doubt the man would up and leave. John had already done so once, why not again? And how many would follow, shattering the already frail group? As for Arthur? He wasn’t sure what the man would do. Provided he even pulled through. He forced the grim thoughts from his mind, meeting Hosea’s gaze. The man mere inches from him, face set hard into an angry expression still.

“I’ll take care of it,” he promised weakly, mind ablaze with a thousand thoughts. He wasn't sure how, but he would figure it out. “We’ll head back to camp and...and I’ll figure things out.”

A promise, though fragile, was still a promise. He still had no idea what in the hell he was going to do, but it was a start. His only hope was that it was enough to soothe Hosea, to temper him. Keep him from doing something stupid, something rash. It was difficult to tell if it was enough, the fury still evident on his face, but something else as well. Reluctance, he realized just then.

“I ain’t leaving him, Dutch. And I ain’t bringing Arthur back until he’s gone.”

Hosea didn’t have to elaborate on who he was referring to. Didn’t have to elaborate on the threat. The warning there was clear, an ultimatum. Dutch should have been angry. Should have been irritated by his words. Should have launched into a speech about loyalty, about sticking together. But he was so numb inside by now he couldn’t muster the strength to argue. Found himself simply nodding instead, showing that he understood. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he said a second time. Hoped it was with more conviction. Not just for Hosea, but for him as well. 

Because even now, Dutch still wasn’t sure what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tough chapter! But I hope things came across okay. 
> 
> Arthur's alive, but down for the count, obviously. I'm sure we'll see him up and about in a future chapter. As for Dutch, he's having a bit of a rough time too. 
> 
> This isn't the first time Dutch has dealt with a traitor in the gang, after all, and he isn't fond of the idea that someone is betraying him. He doesn't like being made a fool. 
> 
> So what do you think's going to happen? What will come next? Share your thoughts, and I'll see you in a few days!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Jack for helping out with some of this! You're help is always appreciated :)

Morning greeted him with two unpleasantries. The first was a pounding headache, a result of his late night celebration. Mouth dry and throat sore he had stumbled clumsily over towards the barrel, the cool water helping to tame his heated skin. Followed by a few mouthfuls of water, a feeble attempt to appease the ache between his temples.

The second thing he became aware of was the blistering on his skin. His fingers were red, a collection of blisters sprouting up like flowers in the spring. A rather large one on his thumb, filled with pus and threatening to burst open. The rash had spread, running down towards the palm of his hand, and starting to creep around his wrist. And his face, he had seen his reflection on the surface of the water, had assumed the red splotches there were unwelcome visitors in response to his hangover. Now he wasn’t so sure, faint memories of rubbing his tired face springing to light.

Perhaps he should have taken more caution. Quietly he hoped that no one would notice. Thankfully, most of the folks here did their best to avoid him, and those who did grace him with their presence were often too dense to take note of any changes. Still he worried; Oleander was used commonly enough among several of the members here, and it wouldn’t take much for them to spot the telltale reaction. If they saw, and remembered, he could be in trouble.

Could be...because he was hoping no one would connect the two incidents. After all, Matthews wouldn’t be handling the ill fated plant. Surely consuming it would have different results. In truth, he hadn’t the faintest idea of how it would happen. Poisoning wasn’t really his style, after all. He preferred ruthlessness, the brutality of being up close and personal. Watching the life drain out of someone’s eyes. A bullet or a blade was much more sufficient in dispatching someone and far more satisfying. But it was too late to pull back now. He would deal with any new problems that emerged when they came. That reassurance brought him momentary satisfaction, and bolstered his reserve.

Even so, he kept his head down. It was easy to do; camp seemed to slog about in slow motion, more than one person here suffering from a hangover just as he was. Spirits were downtrodden, a subdued almost grotesque ambiance filling the air. Chores were being tended to with far less enthusiasm than normal, and even Grimshaw, who’s trill voice could encourage a man to blow his brains out had held a much more reserved tone.

At least there had been coffee. Plenty of it; hot and strong. Those not working were clustered together in small groups, their words soft and stunted as they attempted a normal conversation. Micah watched, the scowl on his face hidden behind his mug. There still had been no sign of Dutch or the others yet, their absence making the camp feel all that more empty. _Soon,_ he reminded himself. They would be back soon. 

He finished his coffee. Found himself sitting at the table on the outskirts of camp. One hand splayed flat on the table, the blade of knife biting into the wood between his fingers. A practiced motion he was so familiar with. One that came from years of trial and error. Nothing earned you money quicker than the prospect of losing a finger. They were scarred from numerous attempts to perfect himself. Something he had nearly achieved. In fact, he was the second best here...well first now, seeing that Morgan was gone.

Damn bastard.

Claimed he hadn’t played before, that he wasn’t familiar with the rules. A sickly sympathetic voice; _‘Forgive me if I slip and stab you in the face’,_ as he sat down to watch, pretending to be impressed by the feat. Micah had thought the win was in the bag, an easy score. And yet, Morgan had surpassed his skill with ease. Had won in a fraction of the time and hadn’t even slipped once. The smug smile on his face as he collected the winnings and sauntered off burned into his skin. The god damn hustler. He stabbed the knife deep into the wood between his forefinger and thumb, smiling briefly as the blade lodged deep. Reminding him of when it sunk fast into Morgan’s shoulder. The way he had screamed in pain. 

“Not the wisest thing, you know?”

He glanced up, pulled from the memory as Javier came by. The man watching him with a frown. Micah bit down the defensive retort that wanted to spring free, forced a measly grin on his face instead.

“What’s that?”

“That the same blade you coated in oleander?” Javier raised an eyebrow, motioning to the knife still buried in the table. He followed the man’s gaze, frowning. “Poison is poison; it only takes a nick, you know.”

Man had a point. He wrested the knife from the wood, sheathing it as he muttered a humble thanks. Of course there was nothing on the blade. The gift of poison that had been granted to him the night before had been put towards other means. Yet that was something Javier did not know, and could never know. It left Micah with no other choice than to play the part, to act as though it was.

Morgan might have riled him, would have stayed and pestered him about his ignorance. Not Javier. The man had simply shaken his head, had gone on his way. The man riding out of camp, calling out something about going fishing. A good thing, perhaps. With him gone, the worry of being caught lessened. Javier was the only one who knew of their exchange at the fire the previous night. With any luck the man would be gone for the a good portion of the day; perhaps long enough for the others to return, for Matthews to down the contents of the vial. The old man would be long cold before he ventured back…

He felt the tension ease. Replaced thoroughly by boredom soon after. Hardly anyone here was in amicable mood, fully invested in routines as if keeping their hands busy would will away the grief. Time ticked by slowly, the sun crawling across the sky, his agitation only growing. Where the hell was he?

Dutch could not be that caught up in his woes to justify being gone this long. Precisely how long did it take to look at a pile of dirt? The irritation bit at him, feeding his agitation. The itch of wanting to go, to move, to _do_ something eating away at his sanity. Usually by now he would have ridden out, would have found some sort of entertainment away from this blasted place.

But not now. He couldn't afford to leave, to miss the moment Dutch and the others returned. Things would happen fast, and he had to be ready. Ready to be by the man's side the moment everything transpired. Ready to take hold, and turn things around. Timing was everything, after all.

Micah pushed aside the boredom, ignored the desire to pass time with a few drinks. Last night's endeavors were still coursing through him unwanted, and he knew that he would need a clear head moving forward. So despite the tedium, he forced himself to wait, eyes and ears open for any sign of their return.

And luck was with him. Because he didn't have to wait much longer.

* * *

In the end, after much deliberation, it had been decided that Hosea and John would remain behind. Hosea had already made his stance known, unwilling to abandon Arthur within the confines of the city, and Dutch didn’t fully trust John to be able to keep his composure upon returning to camp. There had been an argument there, the younger man itching and wanting to _assist_ in tending to the problem at hand, but he had relented, reluctantly, when Dutch had reassured him it would be taken care of in due time. 

The question remained in how.

There was still a part of him, something small and dark buried far beneath his skin that wanted to believe it wasn’t true. Wanted to believe it because it was far easier than the alternative. But that had been quickly silenced by what had transpired during the night. 

Hosea's words had cut him deep. The argument they had, the guilt of trusting a newcomer over a man that was like his own son had barreled through barricades he had so carefully set up. It brought back memories of earlier arguments, the accusation of his unwillingness to see to Arthur when the man was in such a state coming forth. It forced him to push aside his own desire to flee, and for once do what he should had done long ago. 

He stayed.

To the dismay of the doctor, as he had been none to pleased by their reluctance to leave. His tone had softened, however, once money had been slipped his way. The man had turned a blind eye to their vigil, the four of them cramped within that one small room. Hosea seated in the chair close by, John taking to the floor. Dutch himself leaned against the wall nearest to the door, their words traded in hushed whispers lest they wake the sleeping occupant. Not that Dutch expected that to happen. Yet happen it did.

Arthur had come to at one point in the early hours, still far too caught up in the throes of whatever he had been given to make much sense. Had nearly crawled out of the damn bed, would have, had Hosea not taken charge, had talked him through the worst of it. Dutch could only watch from a distance, unable to bring himself to say anything. 

The pallor of Arthur's skin had waned, replaced by a more flushed tone as fever set in. Delirium, all to reminiscent of a few weeks back, taking hold as the man sputtered and coughed, angry retorts escaping him. The same accusations Charles had warned them about, Micah clearly at the forefront of the man's cognition. The vehemence clear within his febrile tone. 

Arthur, he knew, had never liked Micah. The man had made his feelings abundantly clear on more than one occasion, pushing to cut him loose or leave him behind. A suggestion that Dutch hadn’t even entertained. Instead he had pushed aside any concerns or worries, had pushed instead for Arthur to get along, to tolerate Micah. And Arthur had tolerated him. Tolerated him because it was what had been asked of him.

Apparently his toleration had run out. The anger there was real, driving Arthur to try and act, the man determined to get to his feet, repeating a mantra of stopping the other in his tracks. Even Hosea's persistence had failed.

As had John's. When the younger man attempted to step in it only seemed to ignite the fury. Arthur had spat out an angry retort, a crisp warning that his own _god damn son_ was in danger as well. That anger dissipating into a soft whine, a plead almost, for them to move, for them to act. It was then Dutch had forced himself to move.

Arthur had startled at his touch, had been unaware of his presence. Dutch was a fool. He should have said something sooner, should have let him know he was close by. The idea that Arthur hadn't suspected him to be there hurt far more than words could ever say. The look in his eyes was even worse.

  
Because Dutch had seen him then. His gaze clear, unblurred. His thoughts had not been spurred on by delusions as first thought. The realization sinking in. The truth becoming clearer. Easier to follow, yet harder to believe. Then Arthur had spoken, his words cutting him ever deeper. 

He had apologized.

Arthur had apologized for what had happened. For turning his back, for letting his guard down. For being stabbed in the god damn back and nearly drowning. As though this had somehow been his fault. The earlier thoughts that had clouded his judgment came spurring back, making him ill almost. 

Dutch had blamed him too. Had even told Hosea as much. Had held onto the idea that this was Arthur's doing so fiercely in attempt to protect another. Now faced with reality, the evidence glaring in front of his face, he couldn't help but feel all the more a fool. And his anger slowly began to fester. 

He held onto Arthur's hand tight, whispering reassurances until the man calmed and drifted off once more. 

Thoughts swirled in Dutch's head, knowing in the depths of his mind that Micah truly was dangerous. He would have to deal with the man. The easiest way, perhaps, would to be simply ride in and kill him, quick and unaware. But Dutch wanted answers. He wanted to know what had spurred the man into taking such actions.

He could not just ride into camp and interrogate him. Not only would Micah deny such accusations, the allegations would no doubt spur others into acting, and the place would erupt into hostile chaos. It already had at the first announcement of Arthur’s supposed passing. Discovering that the attack had come from one of their own, instead of the Raiders as first suspected, would only fuel that building rage. And if he drew, Micah would defend, and everyone would be caught in the throes of crossfire. Dutch wasn’t willing to put more lives at risk. 

But letting him wander free was not an option either. No, something had to be done. The sooner the better. 

He would figure out something.

That thought was heavy in mind as he and Charles set out the next morning. The man had spent his time waiting with the horses, unwilling to intrude on such private moments, and had followed him back to camp without question. There were the faint fringes of a plan brewing in his mind, and Dutch knew that if he was to be successful, he would have to choose his moves wisely. He hadn't said much, keeping to the most basic of details, and Charles had agreed mutely to follow his lead. It was the only thing the other had said. It gave time for Dutch to focus, to keep things in order.

Even so, Dutch almost made his first blunder upon entering camp. It hadn’t helped that the first person he saw was Micah himself. He did not think he was attempting to seek the man out. Perhaps he was, the thoughts burning fresh in his mind. Or perhaps it was the fact he was seated at the table right near the hitching posts. There was something strange in the man’s gaze, some sort of mirth almost, or maybe that too was all in his imagination. 

What wasn’t fabricated was the way the man moved, hurried steps towards him as though he were a mongrel chasing a downed prey. Dutch pretended to not notice, turned away and even picked up his pace, hoping the silent dismissal was enough to turn him away. He wasn’t quite ready to deal with him yet. That anger was festering, growing and threatening. He couldn't allow it free here. Not yet. Surprisingly, his saving grace, was Molly herself. 

Not that he wanted to see her. Miss O’Shea was a handful at best, and he was hardly in the mood to entertain her, but a small part of him was grateful she was ever stuck in her imperious ways. Because with her here, Micah would not intervene. He could see the man peel off, pretending to be interested in something at Pearson's wagon instead. 

“Alright, Dutch?” Molly's voice cut through to him, distracting him.

“I am about the furthest thing from _alright,_ ” his response came out almost in a growl. Apparently he hadn’t checked his tone as well as he thought. “Arthur is...”

He clamped his mouth shut, the words almost slipping free. He had been about to say that the man wasn’t fairing well. That would have been a grave mistake. As far as everyone here knew, Arthur was dead. That lie would have to remain for the moment. Would remain, as long as he didn’t go through and mess things up. How the hell had Charles done this so well just the night before?

“Oh, Dutch...” she cooed, hand outstretched and resting on his arm. “It’s hard, losing someone like that, but I’ve got you...you know?”

Oh he knew. Knew that she would be so willing to twist this incident to insert herself into the spotlight. Always had been that way, he supposed. The tenderness in her touch, the warmth of the contact only heightened his anxiety. Her desire to consume his every thought and waking moment was far too overbearing. Yet another thing he could not deal with now.

He brushed her aside, excusing himself as he went into his tent. She followed, her mellifluous voice surrounding them as he sat. There was a smile on her face, one that was overdrawn and nearly deafening despite how quiet her words were.

“We can go, the two of us,” she suggested, “I know you need some time- to heal, I mean. Just for a few days, let's go. Stay somewhere nice.”

She carried on, making plans as though this was something to celebrate. It sat heavy in his stomach, his gut twisting all the more as she droned on. Until finally he could stand it no longer. He cut her off, mid-sentence, his voice gruff and perhaps harsher than necessary. But he was past caring; simply because he was done.

“This is hardly the time for _leisure_ , Miss O’Shea,” she despised it when he addressed her as such. “There are others that need my attention, and there are more _important_ things to attend to.”

The flash of fury on her face was quick. She was ever hot-tempered. Cheeks flush red, illuminating her eyes as that smile fell down into a snarl. Arms crossed in front of her chest as she spat out at him.

"You-- You think you can just- just cast me aside like some trollop? Like I'm not in need of some comfort too? Arthur was my friend, you know! You can't just toss me out when it suits you, Van der Linde, and if you think--"

“We are finished here,” he cut her off with his own growl, “go on now, and do whatever it is that you do, and give me five minutes of peace.”

He didn’t feel as though that was too much to ask for. Yet apparently it seemed so. For no sooner had she stormed off in a huff, that Micah himself was edging his way in. And Dutch forgot, momentarily, about the accusations that had been cast upon the man. He stood there, half in shadow, fingers twitching nervously as he cleared his throat.

“What is it, Mr. Bell?” that irritation was still there, edging his words.

“Just wanted to see how you were holding up,” the words unusually gentle and reserved. “I ah...noticed you came back without the others. They doing alright?”

The question sat ill with him. Rubbed at him in a manner he was unfamiliar with. Micah was not one to check in on others...no. Quite the opposite, actually. In the few times Dutch had been searching for a particular person, Micah had always been the first to proclaim that they were fine, and in need of no looking after. He had done it before, more than once, the most recent being after the fabricated parlay with Colm.

Arthur hadn’t shown up at the designated meet point. Micah had been quick to sway his thoughts, had encouraged him to believe Arthur had trailed the O’driscolls out and would make his way back to camp in due time. It had been believable then. Arthur was always the last to leave, always willing to hang back and give others a head start. Why would he have presumed anything different? And Micah...Dutch felt himself swallow. Had Micah been lying about that as well?

“They’ll be back soon enough,” his words sounded hollow. He could swear he saw Micah frown at that. For what reason he could not discern. It was not in Micah’s nature to concern himself with the whereabouts of other’s location. Arthur's warning creeping back into his mind, the thoughts slowly starting to pester him. The silence stretched on, Micah still loitering just inside the entrance. Obviously there was _something_ on the man’s mind. 

“What can I help you with, Mr. Bell?”

Dutch finally broke that awful silence. The apprehension growing until the atmosphere was tense. It was all the prompting he needed, apparently, the man taking another step in, words quick and precise. Practiced, almost.

“I know that it’s hard, boss, losing Morgan like this. But there are others that need looking after. We need to focus on keeping them fed, and we need money.”

Food and money; they were short on both. Had been skimping by already. He knew that there was truth to what Micah was saying, but it sounded aberrant coming from him now. Seeming so caring and concerned, all the while knowing of the devious deeds the man had already committed, and speculating on those in which he was still planning on enacting. The fact he could stand there and carry on as though nothing had happened sickened him. He desperately wanted to silence him for good.

Dutch cleared his throat, knowing he needed to separate himself from such temptation before it became too much to bear. 

“Now is not the time,” he answered, his voice cold and disconnected. Empty of emotion. 

“We need money,” Micah continued as though the last phrase had been merely a suggestion. “Now I know Morgan wouldn’t have wanted us to sit here in squalor. If we could head back west-”

“I said,” Dutch quickly cut him off, “ _not now_.”

A harsher emphasis. That same scowl was there, but masked briefly. The man nodding as he uttered a quick apology before he finally departed. Dutch found himself alone, heart pounding within his ears, the fury brewing. Hearing him mention Arthur like that had snapped something inside of him like a twig. Using his _death_ to push them forward, claiming to know what the man would have wanted as though he knew him better than Dutch did. The damn bastard…

The last thought sat heavy within him. The curse, just on the precipice of his lips, wanting to fall and refusing to do so. The thoughts deep and dark and troubled. Hearing Arthur, his voice, the bitter words scathing through the night like a foul curse. The man, his own son, laid up so soon after his last injury. All it muddling together and collapsing on him like a fallen tree, stealing away his breath.

Revenge was a fools game. How many times had he said that over the years? How often had it been true? They did not have the means to go chasing after every perceived injustice. Not now, not in the world that was ever changing. But this...this was different.

This was personal.

His hands were clasped together, wrought tightly, his anger festering in the silence. More and more that uncertainty was dwindling. Something new forging in its place. Something concrete. _He needed to know._

The gun felt heavy on his hip. Calling to him, demanding to be set free. How easy would it be? He had done it once. Could very well do it again. Right here in camp. Right here in front of everyone. Could break him down into pieces, into a crying heap of a mess. Push him until he confessed...but would he?

Would he have the time? No one knew, save for he and Charles, of the allegations. Surely the women would protest. For the rest, tempers would reign high, would boil over and others would stand against him and his attempted justice. Even for Micah, the unfavored among the group, surely there was someone that was willing to stand up for him. Maybe not for him, he realized dully, but they would come to the realization that Dutch had perhaps lost his mind.

And that would not do. Already he had those questioning him. Faith had been shaky at best, doubt filling the air like putrid stench as one thing after another had gone foul. The loss of previous lives shaking them all, and now with Arthur…

If he was to go out there raging, with his gun drawn, it would end poorly. Even if no one was to question him then, the speculations would be flying silently. He could very well bring the end to everything if he was not careful enough. No...he had to choose his next step wisely.

It felt as though he was trapped within a game of chess. Each move bringing him closer to absolution, but move the wrong piece and he would open himself to self-destruction. No…

As satisfying as it would be to feed into the rage, following it would not serve him in the end. He forgot about the gun at his side. Ignored the twitching of his fingers, lips pursed tightly as a new idea brewed within his head. One far darker and more devious than anticipated. Memories of recent coming back to him. Persuading him. A thin trail he grasped quickly before it could fade.

Then without further thought he pushed himself up, moving out into the open. There were a few hesitant glances his way, nervous anticipation, waiting, he realized, for one of his infamous speeches. He wondered briefly if he should. If it would help solidify the change in his demeanor. Not that anyone would question him if he did not. But it couldn't hurt, so a speech it was.

“Gather around, everyone. Please,” he beckoned them over. Chores were left half finished, the crowed apprehensive as they drew near. Dutch let his gaze wash over the crowed, catching Charles’ attention with a nod. Then pausing on Micah, who stood off to one side, watching as well. Dutch pushed aside the dark thoughts that came forth, conjuring up the words in the practiced way he knew so well instead.

“Now I know that we lost someone dear to us. A person who I cannot imagine moving forward without. But move forward, we must. We cannot, and shall not wither away here. We must be strong. We must _endure_. I need all of you, to pull together. To push through this, so the rest of us may prosper. So, to all of you, keep your heads high. Keep your thoughts strong. We will get through this.”

There were quiet murmurs at that. The tension easing, almost melting into the ground. Dutch too, felt the sweetness of relief. A taste of ecstasy that lasted but a moment. It turned sour, his chest burning as the cold rage returned. He pushed it down again, determined to not let it show. Not yet…

“Mr. Bell,” he called out, not waiting to see if the man even acknowledge. “Ride with me, if you will?”

“You know I’m always there for you, boss.”

Dutch knew far too well. He held his tongue as he mounted, The Count already agitated at having to leave so soon after arriving. Micah had followed suit, Baylock off to his right as they rode out together.

“What’s the plan? Where we headed off to?”

“I would like to see where this job of yours was.”

Micah slowed; enough for Dutch to have to reign The Count in.

“Job? What are going on about?”

“The stage you and Arthur took,” as though he had to remind the man. There was an odd flicker across his features, almost one of unease. Of suspicion. Dutch cleared his throat, elaborating, his features softening. He didn’t want to give away his plan, not just yet. “I need to see where it began. I need to know...I need...closure. Surely you can help me with that?”

That unease settled, the tension fleeing. Micah offered up a smile, one that seemed genuine, but reeked of something else entirely. It was all Dutch could do to keep up the morose expression.

“Sure thing. I’ll show you the way.”

He took the lead, nudging Baylock into a canter. Dutch followed soon after, his sullen smile falling into a grim frown. If only one thing happened from here on out, it was the fact that he would learn the truth.

One way, or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....what does Dutch have planned? 
> 
> Guess we can only wait and see :)


	7. Chapter 7

The air was thick and heavy, the stench of decay greeting them as they rode over the river and into the bayou. In the height of the day, the heat seemed to permeate through every layer of clothing, the fabric clinging to clammy skin and hair dripping with sweat beneath the brim of his hat. He removed it, momentarily, wiping at his brow, the disgust flowing through him. Micah knew that he was not built for this sort of sultry terrain. He much preferred the torrid lands of the desert.

_Soon._ That promise echoed in his mind. With Morgan out of the way, and Matthews soon to follow, his influence on Dutch would go unchecked. Already it seemed to be working, and he felt privileged to be here, despite the long list of grievances he had with every malodorous step they took. The fact that Dutch had chosen him to accompany rang sweetly through him, bolstering his reserve that things were  _finally_ going his way. And if all it took was a brisk ride through an abhorrent swamp to secure his position, he was more than willing to do that. 

Though he never expected this sort of maudlinism from the man. Dutch was idealistic for sure; a romantic at heart. Oh the man liked to pretend he cared, delusive speeches an all too common occurrence filling the air. A way to soothe the masses despite the fact he had no clue of what was taking place right under his very nose. He thrived off of adulation, and by taking this trip, he no doubt was attempting to solidify that his ardency for the fallen man was indeed genuine. 

Why else would he have come his way? 

Tempers within the gang were already flaring. Burning bright and deeply unsettled with past events. Dutch, he suspected, was going through these motions in feeble attempt to reign in what little control remained. All the while growing more desperate; his resolve was fading, and soon enough would crumble completely. And Micah intended to be there to pick up the pieces. To reassemble him back into the cold and cruel malefactor he had long ago read about.

Dutch van der Linde was a name that inspired fear. Once. His name like a curse hardly anyone dared to breathe. His reputation far-spread and wide-reached. The jobs he pulled off, the money made, enough for the man to live like a king to the end of his days. It was the reason he had sought the man out. The whisper of fortune to much a temptress for him to ignore. Micah's own ruthless gang managed well enough, but Dutch's Boys, as they were so called, were the true threat that ran within the realm. The scourge of every mediocre businessman or peasant alike. 

He had joined expecting opulence. Only to be sorely disappointed. Had watched as what little they had secured was given away or squandered on a group of deplorable simpletons, all of which were too drunk or useless to be deserving of such fortune. A group far too large and incommodious to be pragmatic. The presence of the women rooting them seemingly to one spot, and further burdening things when it came time to move on. Spurring on a ridiculous notion of finding a paradise and living out a life of leisure. Potential far too wasted and scorned, withering away like dying foliage amidst a drought. 

All things he intended to rectify. To whittle away the group into a formidable force, to blaze into Blackwater and reap the fortune he so justly deserved. He hadn't come this far to see it lie forgotten in some unknown pit. No...they would secure that first. And they wouldn't stop there. Blackwater would be just the beginning, a new venture without restraints, without the encumbrance of useless inanity weighing them down.

The thought sat with him, mollifying the agitation as he slowed Baylock to a trot, further reigning him in as they approached the remnants of the carnage. Scattered bits of the carriage sat off to one side, picked clean by scroungers that had inevitably come by. The path itself was torn with deep grooves and scorch marks from the dynamite that wrought its fury through the unsuspecting victims in a single blast. The bodies had been dutifully removed but the horses themselves had been shuffled off to one side and left to rot, a sure meal for any scavengers lurking about. Their decaying corpses only added to the fetor in the air, the stench causing his face to crinkle, a hand waved to disperse the offending odor. 

Dutch didn't seem as bothered. The man had already dismounted, taking slow steps out towards the center of the road and surveying the area. He stood, quiet and unmoving, his eyes tracing over the wreckage. Micah slid out of his saddle, mud squelching beneath his boots as he came up near him, words already rehearsed in his head. 

“I know it's not my place to say, but I don't think you're going to find anything here, boss,” he said simply. Reservedly. “Like I said...job went just fine, and we all went our separate ways. I tried to convince Morgan to ride back together, but you know how he is...was. Always stuck in his ways; wanted to go off on his own.”

“You watched him leave?” Dutch wondered, gaze still fixated forward, seemingly focused on the bridge that was there.

“Well, sure. I mean, I wouldn't have taken off until I knew he was fit to do so, Dutch. I know he wasn't feeling all that well, what with his injury and there was no way I was just going to leave a brother behind.”

Dutch nodded. Seemed to accept that. His voice unchanged as he spoke next.

“Didn't Charles say he found his horse here? Wonder how that came to pass?”

“Well, I,” he fumbled, inwardly cursing himself and struggling to maintain his composure. For a brief moment, he wondered if the man suspected. But surely...no. He had covered his tracks well. Dutch, he presumed, was grasping, trying to sort things within his mind. He always liked order, always liked knowing. And his voice, his stance, none of it betrayed any sort of suspicion. He was reaching...nothing more.

“I don't know,” he managed to get out. Heart beating a little quicker. He did his best to ignore it. “I watched him mount up, and then I took off to the north. Cleared out like we had agreed on. He must have stayed...found something, perhaps. You know how he was...set on collecting all those flowers. Probably took the opportunity to gather some more.”

The words had come out quicker than intended, betraying his nerves. He drew a breath, hoping it was enough. It was believable; after all, Morgan had come back to camp more than once with a handful of those blasted orchids. The man had chased away the women who had tried to claim them for themselves, leaving them to fester in bitter disappointment when the man claimed they were for someone else. Whom exactly, he never did say, though it always left him wondering. Morgan, after all, did not seem to be a romantic.

“I mean, Morgan insisted on using the dynamite; I tried to convince him otherwise, but he was adamant it was the only way. Noise probably attracted attention, and he stayed too long. I should have...I should have waited, and made sure, I-” he allowed himself to falter. To pretend to be stricken with guilt. Surely the quickest way to exoneration. Dutch was ever the fool to those that laden themselves with guilt.

He watched as Dutch merely nodded, moving slowly as he followed the path of destruction. There were no words of reassurance, but neither did he continue to prod. Micah felt the tension ease, his breath returning. He watched as Dutch used the toe of his boot to nudge charred remains out of the way, hands on his hips as he surveyed the damage.

“Seems a little elaborate, don't you think? Arthur usually appreciated the simpler, quieter routes...this doesn't seem like something he would have done.”

Morgan had questioned him on the dynamite. Hadn't been so keen on using it. Micah could remember that part quite well, but the man had been easily swayed. To dumb to argue with his logic. Still, Dutch did have a point, and he thought quickly, forcing a shrug and drudging up the first response that came to light.

“He was desperate, Dutch. Watching everyone back at camp suffer, knowing that he hadn't been pulling his weight. I think...I think the guilt was crushing him,” he played up up the remorse. Recalling the argument the pair had held, about Morgan not pulling his weight. On how everyone was struggling to get by. That, he decided, was coming into play at very nice moment. 

“He didn't want to disappoint anyone, I reckon,” Micah went on, “And, well, you know me-the moment he suggested using it, I was onboard. I like to be efficient, after all.”

“That you do, Mr. Bell,” the man seemed to agree, crossing the road to where the horses prone forms were strewn about. He crouched, reaching out to search the saddle bags for any missed opportunity. Micah smiled, appreciating that small trait in him. The unwillingness to overlook small things within the larger picture. His pursuit came up empty, however, the contents already long gone. Didn't seem to detour him, the man pulling to try and free the other bag that had become entangled in the mess of everything.

“You have a knife, Mr. Bell? I seem to have misplaced mine,” he held out his hand expectantly.

Without hesitation, Micah pulled the blade free, pressing the handle into his outstretched palm. Dutch worked with it, sawing through the leather patiently, placing the bag on the ground once it was free. He moved to his feet then, gaze fixated on the weapon. He was studying it, turning it over in his hands, a deep frown marring his face.

“I've seen trinkets in better condition,” the man admonished him.

“I've never been one for flair,” Micah retorted, reaching to take it back. Dutch wasn't so willing to part with it yet, his thumb running the length of the blade. Micah let his hand drop loosely to one side when it was apparent the man would not be relinquishing the weapon.

“This seems hardly adequate enough to chop vegetables with, let alone defend yourself. You should really take better care of your things.”

That miffed him a little. What the hell did he care?

“I admit that perhaps I've become lax in some areas,” Micah admitted, a slight growl on his lips at the rebuke, “It might need some work, but it does well enough.”

“That seems open for debate,” he argued, “this is a disgrace; how are to accomplish anything with this sorry excuse for a knife? How am I to trust you and your devotion to this gang if you can't even take care of your weapons?”

Dutch, he figured, was spiraling. Why else would he make such a ludicrous connection? The state of an old knife had nothing to do with his loyalty; he so desperately wanted to point that out, but didn't. Watching instead as Dutch pressed on the blade, that frown of his deepening.

“I mean, I bet that you couldn't even gut a fish with this.”

“It ain't exactly for gutting fish,” Micah huffed, unable to contain his irritation any longer. Why the hell was the man so bent about his weapon? It wasn't like he only used that knife. A gun was far more superior, and he always made sure that those were in better shape. Still, he didn't appreciate the badgering, the accusations. He cleared his throat.

“Look, I've used it plenty of times. It always gets the job done.”

“Provided you put enough effort behind it,” Dutch mused quietly.

“That's the difference, between me and the others. I ain't afraid of putting the effort in, boss,” he couldn't help but add in the jibe. Throwing out the reminder that _he_ had done more than most of the folks back at camp combined. 

“And how much effort did it take to drive this into his back, I wonder?”

“Hardly none at all,” he smirked, still attempting to prove his worth. Then his heart sunk, the words echoing in the thin air. Stark realization settled in his gut as he realized exactly what he had just said

“I mean...what? Who you talking about?”

He tried to save himself. Backpedaling over his words. The fatal flaw realized just too late. He found himself suddenly unable to breathe, meeting Dutch's gaze. A dark furor burned within the man's eyes as his fingers tightened around the handle.

“But it wasn't enough effort, was it?” Dutch's voice was cold now. Hardly a whisper as he stepped close. “What's the matter? Couldn't finish the job yourself? Just didn't have it in you?”

“I don't,” he started, faltering, heart hammering in his chest. He was going to say he didn't know what he was talking about, but the words wouldn't come. His mind was racing. The man knew. _Somehow_ he knew. Understanding sinking in a moment later, the words clicking within his mind. _Couldn't finish the job yourself?_

“He...Morgan's-”

“Oh he'll live,” Dutch confirmed, “Unlike you.”

The threat was clear. Morgan was alive. Had no doubt divulged everything. Curses sprung up in his mind, chastising him for his foolishness. His imprudence. If only he had done what his first intuitions had told him. If only he had slit his throat clean open...what a fool he was.

His fingers twitched, reaching for his gun. Determined to protect himself. But Dutch already had his pulled free, the motion so sudden it was barely seen. He stared down the barrel that was mere inches from his face. 

“That would be an ill-advised move, Mr. Bell.”

He, himself, was quick. Could out-draw most of the fools back at camp. Had stood in his fair share of duels. But he couldn't win here. Not against Dutch. Not against the bullet that would fire at pointblank range. Shooting his way out, as was his normal tactic, was not an option here. Talking, perhaps. Pleading, begging...he was not beneath any of it.

“Look, boss, I know this looks bad, but you gotta hear me out.”

“Oh please do share your compelling insight,” Dutch encouraged him. “I, for one, am simply _dying_ to hear the reasoning behind your logic. I assume that you too, are curious, Mr. Smith?”

Charles was here? He could hear the footsteps, saw the man edge into his vision, his own gun drawn as well. He replied something unheard, a free hand working to disarm him, stepping back up near Dutch once that had been finished. 

“I'm still waiting,” Dutch hissed, the anger still clear in his voice. Micah swallowed, words chosen carefully, knowing full well they could be his last.

“Look, I don't know what Morgan's told you, but he's lying. I would never...he's like a brother to me. Dutch, you know me...you know that I would...that I would give my life for him. That I would give my life for anyone here. Now I know that something unfortunate happened to Morgan, but he...he never did like me much. He's just...confused, that's all. You wouldn't want a simple misunderstanding to lead you to do something you'd regret, now would you?”

He hoped it was enough. Hoped somehow he could still convince the other it was a mistake. He felt sick, down to the very core of his stomach, every fiber of his being weak and uncertain. The anger on Dutch's face softened, almost falling into a kind gesture. Almost as though he believed...Micah felt himself breathe a little. 

“I've heard enough of your drivel,” the man said simply. “Now, would you do me a kind gesture, and turn around?”

“What?” 

He wasn't sure if he heard correctly. After all, what the hell kind of request was that? Micah searched his face, hoping for a sign, for any clue to as what the man was thinking. But his expression betrayed nothing save for anger, that snarl returning as he shouted the order a second time. The rage clear and unhindered.

With two guns trained on him, he had little choice but to obey. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, a chill racing down his spine as he turned. He saw nothing now but the swamp in front of him. The trees were laden with moss and clouds of gnats and mosquitoes buzzed about in the afternoon sun as though they had no concern in the world. Shadows cast from the light filtering through the trees seemed to chill him to the very core. And his breath was deafeningly loud in the quiet air.

Micah didn't know what was happening behind him. He was terrified at the prospect of being cast so vulnerable like this. Waited, inevitably, for the bullet to tear clean through him. His mind still racing, still attempting to figure a way out of this blunder. Running never seemed more enticing. 

He wouldn't make it, he knew. Micah flinched almost at the sounds of footsteps behind him, could almost feel the other body a breadth away. The silence stretched, almost unbearable, unknowing of what was going to happen. His heart was pounding, knees shaking, threatening to give way. 

Dutch, he assumed, was just trying to frighten him. If so, it surely was working. But his mind raced, recalling how often the man spouted that they did not seek revenge. This, all of this, was a farce then. He allowed himself to breathe a little.

The man wouldn't kill him. No...there was no way Dutch had it in him. No, he would threaten, would attempt to scare him. Then he would be banished, cast out. Sent running for the hills. The threat given to the others to shoot on sight if he was seen again. The humiliation would last for ages, he knew, as he scampered out west to find the remnants of his former gang, his proverbial tail between his legs. But better humiliated than dead, he supposed.

“You want me to leave?” he proposed, attempting to coax the idea forth before he suffered too much. “I'll go, if that's what you want. You have my word that you won't see me again; I'll be old news, that much is for sure-”

He faltered as the pain, sharp and sudden, flared within his shoulder. There was a grunt behind him as the blade was shoved in deeper. It stole the air from his lungs, choked off the words he was saying and forced them into a stunted whimper. His legs truly did give out then, knees impacting into sodden ground. That whimper turning into a scream as the blade was yanked free. The breath above him heavy.

“I do say that you were right, Mr. Bell. This old thing _can_ get the job done if you put enough effort behind it.”

He turned, a snarl on his lips. Feeling angry, betrayed. The adrenaline surged through him, the desire to fight back, the need to survive overcoming his momentary fear. He didn't get far. The butt of the gun caught him on the chin, knocking him back, pain erupting in his head as went spiraling face first into the mud. Something else, a boot he suspected, caught him in the stomach, forcing him to curl in on himself, his whole body reeling. He was barely aware of his hands being bound, noticed only when he was hauled back up, spitting blood out into the dirt. 

“What the hell are you going to do?” He spat out, his attempts at negotiating long gone. His shoulder was throbbing in excruciating pain, and his chin felt as though it had been busted clean open. Perhaps it had been, seeing the blood that dripped down onto his pants.

Dutch didn't answer, wasn't even looking his way as he holstered his gun. Instead his attention was on Charles, watching as the man collected Taima from the edge of the swamp, calming the nervous steed.

“Mr. Smith,” Dutch nodded to him, the anger gone from his voice and falling into a businesslike tone, “would you be so kind to escort Mr. Morgan and the others back to camp? I have other business to attend to.”

“You'll be alright, on your own?” the man wondered quietly, flicking his way. 

“Oh, I'll be just fine, don't you worry about me, son. Mr. Bell and I need to have a little _chat_. See if we can come to some sort of understanding.”

The last part had been directed his way, Dutch coming a stop mere feet in front of him. He held the knife up, a callous smile on his face as he watched the fresh blood drip off of it. He spoke, his voice cold and thin in a way that was unfamiliar to him;, the icy words sent a shiver down his spine.

“Now...let's see precisely how much damage this blade _can_ do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so...Micah kind of rats himself out. Fitting? A shame that he didn't use the poison to coat the blade for real, now isn't it? But that does leave one to wonder what exactly will happen with that poison, seeing as it still is back at camp.
> 
> What will happen next, I wonder? One can only imagine...
> 
> Hope to hear from you all, it truly does make my day. Don't be shy! :)
> 
> See you next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

Consciousness came slowly, but surely, creeping over him like the rising of the sun. It was, at first, difficult to sort and discern what had truly happened, and what had been conjured by darker, more disturbing fallacies. Images danced within his head of the possibilities to come, the threats loud and clear in his head, words ringing like the bells that summoned mass. But a more emphatic recollection pressed its way forth, the warm hold on his hand soothing his anxiety, beckoning him to come to. The voice gentle, reassuring, though full of mirth.

He knew Hosea’s voice anywhere.

“You’re going to have to get up sometime,” the older man teased. Light was beginning to register beneath closed eyelids, his awareness seeping into him like water into the ground. And with that awareness came the pain.

Not hot and fiery like it had been after Colm. Not needlessly abhorrent like the one time he had busted his leg. Rather it was more muted, a heavy ache that seemed determined to worm its way clear through his bones and into his marrow. His chest felt heavy, as though he had thoroughly been thrashed, and perhaps he had been, seeing as he couldn’t remember much.

His head ached too, though it was more of a tenderness that had settled around the back, slowly creeping down his neck. He felt dizzy, could swear he felt the ground tilting and shifting beneath him despite the fact he hadn’t even tried to move. There was a calloused hand that came to rest on his forehead, brushing stray locks from his face, that same voice prompting him again.

“You want to try and sit up? Charles is waiting for us at the saloon. We’re gonna get you on home; but you have to try and wake up a little first.”

To that, he let out a grunt. Sitting up was definitely not on the list of things he wanted to achieve today. As far as he was concerned, Charles could spend all afternoon the saloon just fine. Honestly he would probably appreciate the break. Arthur knew that if positions were reversed, he certainly would. Yet Hosea was persistent. The man gave him a few more minutes to stew in his own sorrow, before prompting him once again. This time it wasn’t a question, rather a statement.

“Come on then, let’s get you up.”

There was no way Hosea would be able to lift him, he knew. Still the old fool tried, one hand placed carefully under his shoulder, urging him up. Arthur followed the motions, letting out a stiff groan as he worked to gain his balance. He was left sitting on the edge of the bed, head drooping slightly as he fought off the wave of dizziness that threatened to send him careening to the floor. That, and the fact he couldn’t catch his breath; it nearly sent him into a panic.

Hosea kept him grounded. One hand still clutching his, somehow unperturbed by the pallor of his face. Arthur could clearly feel the creeping chill, the nausea all to persistent to ignore, the heaviness settling on his tongue. His insides burning as he heaved.

Dutch, he was certain, would have already abandoned him to suffer that fate alone, but not Hosea. There didn't seem to be much that flustered the man. His quiet words, a nonstop monologue of reassurances drawing him through the worst of it. Sweat had collected on his brow by the time he was finished, beading on the surface of his skin before slowly sliding down and dropping onto the sheets below. He was shaking.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like horseshit,” he muttered, voice rough and broken.

It stung when he coughed, the bitterness still in his mouth as he leaned over and spat. The dizziness was still there, as was the ache that throbbed seemingly in time with his heartbeat. And his shoulder...he dug his fingers into the flesh, wincing at the contact, trying to ignore the spasm that accompanied each and every small gesture. It wasn’t the raw and burning pain he had grown accustomed to. No, this was sharper, somehow worse than what the O’Driscolls had done to him. The god damn bastard…

Arthur let out a heavy breath. He was battered and bruised, lodged within misery that was unmatched, but at least he was alive. Something he should be thankful for, but that gratitude was hard to come by at the moment. Later...he would celebrate later. Right now? Right now he wanted to sleep. Or die.

Both perhaps.

He wondered if Hosea would let him. The older man still sat near him, still held onto his one hand. A gentle squeeze that caught his attention, meeting the worried eyes that scrutinized his appearance. Then the man smiled, one of pity-though his voice didn't betray that same emotion.

“We should probably get you dressed; John went down and found something at the tailors for you. I don’t think there’s any hope for the rest of your things, after all.”

John had picked up stuff for him? What was Hosea thinking? The man couldn’t pick fleas off his own ass, let alone something that would actually fit him. Arthur took the liberty of sharing this insight with him. Hosea was none too pleased with his keen observation. It seemed as though the man did not appreciate his sense of humor.

Still, he complied, not having much choice in the matter. In the end the clothes weren't too bad, surprisingly. A little loose, but nothing too egregious. He found himself breathing afterwards, hot heavy breaths that thundered within his tight chest, the dizziness returning with a vengeance. Hosea noticed despite the fact Arthur hadn't said anything; there was a hand that came to rest on the back on his neck, talking him through it with practiced words. Several, long and terrifying moments passed in which he was sure he was going to collapse. Or get sick. Or get sick and then collapse right into the mess, ruining the very clothes he had just managed to wrangle himself into.

Then it eased, and he managed a few breaths. Ragged and heavy, feeling as though it rattled his bones. The coughing certainly didn't help. There were tears in his eyes, unnoticed til now, and he reached up to wipe them away hastily. He was a god damn mess. The bed he sat on was more than inviting, beckoning him to lay back down and forget all this nonsense. He almost did, moved to follow the silent command, but Hosea was still quick in his old age and had him moving the opposite direction before he could follow through.

Standing should have been easy. It wasn't. Not even in the least. His one hand braced against the wall to steady himself lest he fall on top of Hosea. That would truly be unfortunate; Arthur was sure to crush the poor fool on the journey down. His legs felt weak, unsteady, as though he was newly born foal that was trying to figure out how walking even worked. His steps clumsy, but he was moving. Didn't even realize how much he had been leaning on Hosea until they left the place.

Saint Denis and all its glory greeted him just beyond the door. Too bright, too loud, too everything, making him wince. He raised a hand in feeble attempt to block out the sun. Only to grasp the saddle that appeared in front of him moments later. Hosea in all his charm, still spoke gaily, as though he was discussing his latest successful con.

“You're doing just fine, my boy, just fine.”

Arthur wasn't sure if he was reassuring him or the horse. Or perhaps himself; he didn't miss the wince Hosea gave as the man let him go, allowing Silver Dollar to burden his weight instead. The horse nickered, shuffling where he stood, clearly agitated at the sudden presence. Arthur calmed him, wincing as he reached stiffly up with the other hand, fingers brushing along his flank. His heart was pounding from the short walk, that same tightness creeping back up on him. Eyes closed, he pressed his head against Silver's flesh, trying to will his body to take in a much need breath.

Easier this time than last. His fingers ran idly through the horse's mane. Then he felt Hosea's hand land on his shoulder, the man already in the saddle.

“Let's get you on up then; I'll help you along.”

He peeled his eyes open, raising his head to look at Hosea with a frown. “Where's Hera?”

“She's back at camp, don't you worry,” the man prompted him again. “Come on now.”

“I ain't riding your horse, Hosea,” he shook his head. Not the wisest decisions, wincing at how the world seemed to sway. His hand gripped onto the saddle tighter.

“You plan on walking?”

“I-no,” he protested, gritting his teeth. “I just...I can ride on my own.”

“I normally appreciate your enthusiasm, Arthur, but now is hardly the time for it. Besides, ain't no one going back to camp to fetch her for you. Now come on,” he wrapped a hand around his good arm.

“Hosea-”

“You can't even keep yourself upright,” the man admonished him.

That much, was true. Even now his legs were shaking; he hadn't even been up for more than ten minutes and already he felt fit to collapse. Arthur drew in a breath, wincing at the tightness in chest. Then with more effort than he thought possible, he lodged his foot into the stirrup, and heaved himself up.

Hosea, despite his frail appearance, still had quite the strength. He managed to keep hold of him, helping him settle on the back of Silver. Arthur let his head droop, resting between the man's shoulders, a cough escaping. His heart seemed fit to burst out of his chest. And the nausea was returning.

“You ready?”

He nodded. He wasn't, but truth be told he didn't think he'd ever be. The jostling motion of the horse did no favors for his predicament, Arthur grinding his teeth and willing away the nausea. If he could go one blasted second without feeling like he was going to spill his guts he would be ever grateful. Somehow he managed, and it withered away, slowly. Fading like a shadow within the sun.

He must have drifted, memory faint and unable to discern how they had arrived at the saloon. Charles was waiting outside, a questioning gaze sent his way. The man had asked a question, but of what he couldn't rightly say. His head was fuzzy, the words missed. Hosea answered for him, the words echoing strangely in his ears.

“He'll be alright once we get him back. How are the roads looking?”

“Quiet; a good fortune for us,” Charles answered back. Arthur watched as he mounted Taima, nudging her into the lead. “The Raiders must have moved on, for now at least.”

“We'll take whatever luck we can, no matter how small,” Hosea answered. They wove their way through the streets, the motion calming now as opposed to upsetting. Lulling almost. He found himself drifting again. Arthur was glad Hosea hadn't let him try and ride on his own. Surely he would have fallen and no doubt John would have _never_ let him live that down. John...

He forced his eyes open, glancing around. Confused. He was, without a doubt, certain John had been with them last night. Hosea had even said the man had brought him clothes. So where in the hell was he now? The fact he wasn't here sent his heart aflutter. If that damn idiot had gotten himself in trouble...

“Where's Marston?”

“Sent him on ahead to camp,” Hosea reassured him, his tone still amiable. “We uh, sort of announced your death to everyone the other night. Figured we shouldn't just come traipsing in, hauling you back from the dead. You might end up frightening a few folk.”

“You did what?”

“That was my fault, Arthur,” Charles cut in. “I found you like that and I-I didn't know what to think. I just knew that if Micah found out that you were still alive...well, I'm not sure what he would have done. So I told everyone that you were dead. I wouldn't have...it wasn't like I wanted to-”

“You did just fine, Charles,” Hosea cut him off. “Anyone else in that position would have done the same, I am certain.”

“I can think of a few who wouldn't,” Arthur muttered. Marston was at the forefront of his mind. The damn fool wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut. Would have dragged him back by his coattail and shot the bastard right between his eyes. Probably would have gotten a bullet in return for his actions, knowing Dutch.

“What's done is done,” Hosea reassured him. “What we need to focus on now is getting you back, and getting you better.”

“I fear that's a hopeless cause there,” Arthur murmured, head drooping once more. Barely heard the argument spun from the other man. He didn't feel as though he'd ever get better; these past few months had been one string of misery after another, each new turn worse than the last.

He wasn't sure how many more turns he could take.

Something he'd debate later. His weariness was starting to overcome him, the lull of the saddle beneath him, the solid warmth in front of him, the gentle caress of the sun above; all of it working against him.

Sleep was easy to come by.

* * *

It was easy to discern when the weight behind him changed, morphing into something heavier, something cumbrous. A quick glance from Charles confirmed all he needed to know; Arthur had fallen asleep behind him. Even without the influence of the doctor and all his doings, the man was still exhausted. Unsurprisingly, given all he had gone through.

What he was still going through.

That reminder was ever present. He could see it in the man’s face, the way it had turned in pain, how his skin wavered between a hot flush and icy pallor, seemingly unable to make up its mind. He could hear it in the way his chest rattled, almost as though he was struggling to breathe. And the coughs that were torn from him, from deep within, crass enough to even make him wince.

Hosea had dealt with the same vexing irritation himself, a cough all his own pestering and wheedling away his defenses for years now. A slow, quiet thing that had crept up on him almost entirely unaware. A nuisance, at first, until it was looming over his head and far too pressing to ignore. Some days were better than others. Some days were worse, leaving him short on breath and drained of all energy or desire to even attempt to do anything. He had gone to a doctor before, back when he was younger, but was brushed aside, told simply there wasn’t anything to be done. Told simply that he was getting old.

Hosea knew that. He didn’t need to pay some lunatic to tell him as much. That growing burn in his lungs, the tickle in his throat that never seemed to wane, the mounting exhaustion. Those were not symptoms of age. Rather something more ominous; and it seemed as though he would get no answers from doctors.

So he had turned to books. Reading was a pastime of his. He could happily reside in one spot, lost within the words provided. Mystery novels were a favorite of his, but he was also inclined to delve into compendiums. It was were he learned about hunting, where he had learned about herbs. And throughout the years, in a series of trial and error, he had come to discover some sort of tonics that had eased his symptoms. It wasn’t a cure, he knew. But it helped. Helped to tamper that cough, soothe that tickle, and ease the discomfort within his chest.

Perhaps he could do the same for Arthur.

The thought played in his mind as they drew near camp. The roads had been blissfully quiet, just as Charles had said. A small respite. Hosea reached behind him with one hand, squeezing Arthur’s knee, an attempt to rouse him. Having sent John ahead to explain things had been a wise move; even so, he expected everyone back at camp to be up in arms. That speculation already proving to be true as they rode in. Bill’s robust voice was loud enough to alert half the state. Or Arthur at least; Hosea could feel the man stir behind him.

“I’m sorry, Morgan,” Bill was following alongside, gun clenched rigidly within his grasp, “Had I known what he was up to, I would have finished him; I would have!”

“It’s okay,” the words behind him were slurred as Hosea reigned in Silver drawing near the hitching post. Arthur, he could tell, was still trying to get his mind in working order, fighting the recent depths of his brief siesta. Yet Bill carried on as though the man was fully alert.

“I would have never let Micah get the jump on me like that; you see, war teaches you to always be aware of your surroundings, and had he tried that on me, I would have taught him a lesson or two.”

“That’s quite enough,” Hosea cut him off before he could continue, a frown on his face as Charles came up alongside him. The last thing he needed was a fight to break out, verbal or otherwise. He wasn’t sure if Bill was attempting to start something, or if the man’s ignorance was simply overshadowing his reasoning. Badgering Arthur about his supposed failures would result in nothing kind.

However, Hosea wasn’t sure if Arthur had even heard him. The man was strangely quiet when normally he would have mustered up some sort of retort. More concern filled him as there was just a groan, one that was broken by yet another coughing fit. Charles had helped him slide from the saddle, supporting his weight until it was apparent he could stand on his own.

And then the rest of them came.

The entire camp, pushing their way in. Crowding him. Some voices more distinct than others, shouting and hollering, each one trying to get in and at the man. The women at the forefront, Tilly and Mary-beth alike weeping soft tears and an embrace so cumbersome that it was difficult to tell who was comforting who. All of it happening so suddenly that it was difficult to follow, and completely overwhelming.

Until Grimshaw stepped in.

The woman was having none at it, her voice high and distinct, plowing brazenly through and stepping up near the man. One hand reached out to grab his, taking over from Charles and standing fast in front of the encroaching crowd as she hollered at them all.

“Go on, all of you, give him some space, let him breathe for christ-sakes. Get on out of here, now. Shoo! You think this is a holiday, you think all them chores will get done if you just stand here jabbering? Get back to work you lazy sods! Go on now.”

There was some grumbles there, some complaints, all silenced as she snapped at them again. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, and the very reason she was in charge of maintaining camp order. There were few, men and women alike, that were willing to stand up to her. As the crowd slowly dispersed, her voice softened, though the reprimanding tone was still there.

“Mr. Morgan, you really ought to stop coming back to camp like this; I don’t think my poor soul can handle it.”

“I will do my best, Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur replied dutifully.

Hosea couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the answer seemingly practiced and perhaps it was. After all, this was not the first time the woman had launched herself at the man for one thing or another. Typically it was over the state of his cleanliness, the woman not above grabbing him by the ear and dragging him to the water barrel to wash. Quietly, Hosea mused that it was perhaps a good thing they hadn’t tried dressing him in his old clothes. She would have had a fit.

“Come on then, let’s get you to bed; you look about ready to fall asleep standing there.”

“In a moment,” Arthur had waved her off, had tried to pull from her hold, stumbling nearly. Her hold tightened, the frustration in her voice mounting.

“Not in a moment, you’ll go now; don’t make me drag you Mr. Morgan, because I certainly will.”

“Gotta see to my horse,” he muttered. Tried heading that way again.

“Let the others see to the horses; you won’t be doing anything ‘round here till I see you fit to do so, you hear me?”

Hosea let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “You best let that boy go see his horse. We’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

Of course he would be worried about his horse. Arthur always was. He could remember a time, nearly a decade ago, when they had been escaping the law. Both he and his horse, Boadicea, had been hit by stray bullets. The damn fool had been bleeding out from his leg and still he insisted on tending to the mare first. Dutch had had a fit over that episode.

Seemed like Susan could remember that bit too. Had let Arthur go with a sigh, her hands coming to rest on her hips instead. “Alright then; but as soon as you are done, you will be going to bed, do you hear me, Mr. Morgan?”

“Loud and clear, Miss Grimshaw,” he nodded to her, all the while hobbling slowly towards where Hera was hitched. Hosea followed behind, determined to stay close. Despite his stubbornness, Hosea knew exactly how feeble the man truly was. If Arthur was going to collapse, he wanted to at least be here to soften the descent.

He watched as the man slowly traversed that way, one arm tucked against his chest, the other outstretched on the hitching posts, steps slow but sure. Hera nickering softly as he came close. Seemed as though she was just as happy to see him as he was to see her.

“I took real-real good care of her,” Kieran stammered. Hosea hadn’t seen the O’Driscoll until just now, the man coming out from around the horse’s other side. “I just w-wanted you t-to know that she’s fine. I brushed her down a-and gave her a-a bunch of apples.”

“Looks like you did a mighty fine job,” Arthur nodded towards him, too tired to add in one of his typical insults. He had reached Hera’s side, letting his head come to rest against her neck. Hosea didn’t miss the way he squeezed his eyes shut. Also didn’t miss the wave of coughs that wracked his body. He stepped near, hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder, waiting till the younger man opened his eyes.

“Come on, Arthur. You need to rest.”

He figured the man would argue. Braced himself for it. Had a retort ready, settled within his mind. But the man merely nodded, perhaps an indication of how worn he truly was. Arthur brushed his hand along Hera’s flank one final time, a whispered promise he’d see to her later before he peeled himself away.

Only to run into Abigail. The woman had somehow sneaked around Grimshaw, and wasted no time in pulling him into a gentle hug. The smile on her face warm, the glistening of soft, unshed tears resting within her eyes.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Arthur,” she told him quietly.

“Yeah,” the man agreed wearily, “well, your John is the one who picked these clothes out, so you can go complain to him.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she laughed, pulling away from his hold. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

The exchange was simple and fast, the woman disappearing back into the fray almost a quick as she had appeared. Hosea prompted Arthur gently to resume his trek, slowly crossing the length of the camp. He could feel everyone’s eyes on them, burning into them, imprinting every step they took into their minds. Hosea only hoped the man would make it to his tent before collapsing. What panic that would create…

A fear that was unfounded; though his breaths where heavy by the time he sat down on the edge of the cot. A few coughs eventually broke those feeble gasps, the man leaning over to spit, a low groan following suit. It hurt to watch him, in more than one way.

“Is there anything I can fetch for you?” Grimshaw had come up behind him, had asked the question that had been lingering on his lips.

Arthur shook his head, the man letting out a heavy sigh. “No...I think-think I’m going to just lie down and feel sorry for myself, if that’s alright.”

The poor attempt at a joke was choked off by another cough. Another grimace. Hosea let out his own sigh.

“Let me at least get you something for that cough; it’s much better than anything doctor can give you.”

He didn’t wait for the acknowledgment; more intent on working his way towards his own tent. A trying process for sure seeing as he was stopped not once, not twice, but three separate times. People expressing concerns, people wanting to know the truth, agitated and frustration brewing on the surface. Angry retorts and bitter opinions expressed on what had transpired. John, had apparently spared no details, had apparently announced Arthur’s survival in the same breath as Micah’s betrayal.

Folk were worried.

He didn’t blame them. Things had not gone in their favor for quite some time now, a string of ill luck that just seemed to be getting worse. The news of a traitor among them had stirred the pot even more so. A temper he was hoping that Dutch could tame upon his return. He wasn’t sure what the man was doing, but it took little imagination to wonder what was taking place.

Dutch had always held a deeper and darker piece of himself. An anger that brewed hidden far beneath his skin. It surfaced, every now in then, the younger man just barely able to reign it in. Hosea had seen him kill, had seem him lash out, had seen him completely lose his mind. Only to come crashing down after. That anger, sooner or later, would burn out and all that would be left behind was an empty shell. He had seen it happen more than once.

Suspected the same to happen here. Micah deserved whatever wretched fate that Dutch had chosen for him. Deserved that and far more. But Dutch...he wasn’t sure how Dutch would be once it was all done and finished. That guilt, the failure of not being able to stop things before they transpired would eat away at him. And as time passed, the knowledge of his cruelty would come to light, and it would be one more broken piece Hosea would have to figure out how to patch. He had done it once before; the last time Dutch had killed a traitor.

Hosea would deal with it when that time came. Right now, his focus was on Arthur. He ducked under the lean-to that sheltered his bed. The crate an all too welcoming sight, the hinges squeaking as he opened the lid. Fingers grasped a vial and pulled it free; only to pause, a frown crossing his face.

Empty...as was the next one. Only a single bottle filled. That was….that was strange. He could remember, almost distinctively, of having more than this left. His mind wandering, trying to recall, trying to figure it out. He stilled, wavering on his knees as his eyes wandered over the single vial clutched in his hand, a thumb running over the faded label.

Normally he made one large batch, enough to last a few days a time. Part of him convinced he had just made this previous one just a short time ago. There should be more this. He could remember it, the process imprinted in his brain. He remembered grinding the herbs into a paste, could remember boiling them in water, could remember….

He must be remembering wrong.

That was all. What with the chaos of the previous day, the long night spent awake, most of this day spent worrying and fretting, trying to get Arthur back home. It was enough to confuse anyone. Hosea mused that he had simply lost track of time. He closed the crate.

Winced as he moved back to his feet.

Once again he crossed the camp, this time unbothered. Everyone had gone back to their routine, all their questions answered or at least their curiosity sated for now. Still, there were a few glances his way, and he was all to happy to avoid them by ducking into Arthur’s tent.

Grimshaw had pulled the sides down, giving the man much needed privacy. She met his gaze as he came in, the smile on her face as he came to a stop. The woman had taken residence in the chair next to his bed.

“He fell asleep almost as soon as you left,” she told him softly, her voice quiet. “Poor thing is exhausted.”

Hosea nodded. That was not something he needed to be told. Arthur, at the moment, looked content. Even though the heavy breaths filled the air. Hosea clutched the vial, almost mournful that he hadn’t been quicker. He wasn’t about to wake him now; rest, after all, was the best thing for him.

“I’ll sit here a while, keep an eye on him,” she continued, motioning for him to leave.

The offer was genuine, and for that he was grateful. Grimshaw had helped raise Arthur as much as he and Dutch had, and he knew the woman held a special place in her heart for him. She had sat by his bedside on more than one occasion, had helped nurse him through more than one round of illness or injury.

And Hosea wouldn’t lie. He was tired. Sleep was calling to him. He hadn’t had a chance for it last night. In his youth that wouldn’t have been so much a problem. The things age did to a person. Hosea smiled, nodding his thanks. Then he leaned over, reaching across Grimshaw and placing the vial on the table near his bed.

“Have him take that when he wakes up; it’ll help with his lungs.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the gesture, Mr. Matthews. Now you go on and get some rest; I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

He thanked her once again, leaving the pair behind. Further ignored the glances his way as he retired to his tent. There was no telling when Dutch would return, and of what kind of mood the man would be in when he did. So for now, he was going to sleep. He was going to claim what little bit of rest while he could.

Because Hosea had a feeling the next few days would be long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah....
> 
> See you folks in a few days!


	9. Chapter 9

In the end, it hadn’t take much convincing.

Micah, it turned out, was more bluster than anything else. The man had wavered between unhinged anger, and vehement denial. At first running his mouth, claiming it was a mistake, that he had done no wrong. A simple misunderstanding, if Dutch remembered rightly. Those claims fading, his refutation morphing into anger, new accusations spewing forth. Claiming he had been defending himself, that he had had no choice. Claiming Arthur had gone mad and lost his mind. Perhaps driven to insanity, influenced by the O’Driscolls.

Then why had he stabbed the man in the back?

Dutch had asked that poignant question, the tip of the blade scraping across punctured flesh as he did so. It was enthralling watching him squirm. The man had fully been at his mercy by that point, the fight long gone out of him. Shortly after initially driving the blade into his flesh, Dutch had dragged him to the side of the road, where he had thrashed him until his spitting remarks had withered away to bitter pleas. The man understanding then that he had been discovered; he was realizing, perhaps, that there would be no talking himself out of this one.

It sent Micah into a rage. Spitting out cruel vehemence, accusing him of folly, of wasted opportunity.

It was the money. Of course this was about the damn money. The man had pestered him, to no end about its location. Had brought it up at every damn opportunity. Had glowered and fumed bitterly whenever he had been turned away. Dutch had taken that to be ambition. Recalcitrancy was more apt, apparently.

And the more Dutch pushed, the more his words changed.

No longer was it a misunderstanding. No longer was it an act of self-defense. The man savagely proclaiming that Arthur had deserved it, that they were better off without the man, that the entire ordeal had been _pleasurable_. That last statement had nearly compelled Dutch to drive a bullet into his brain.

Dutch’s enmity was unmatched. Cold, cruel, violent. Festering; so enraged by what had happened that any folk passing by had quickly hurried on, not wanting to involve themselves within their dispute. And the one person who had, had found a bullet between his eyes before he could even finish his threat. Dutch hadn't even hesitated; the fire burning within his veins, fingers wound tight around the smoking gun. The body left strewn across the road, a warning to any others that happened by; turn back-here there be monsters.

Dutch often said that revenge was a fool’s game. That they couldn’t afford it. The truth was _he_ couldn’t afford it. The desires within him dark and disturbing, an insatiable hunger that wholly consumed him. Dutch avoided revenge simply because he did not like the monster he became while pursuing it. It was a dark secret he had so carefully kept under wraps for so long. A demon that had worked itself free only a handful of times within his life. Hosea, perhaps, the only one who had seen this devil within him. 

That same devil unleashed here.

As easy and simple it would have been to run Micah through and be done with him, that dark desire convinced him otherwise. The grip on his gun loosened, tightening around the knife instead. The blade digging deep into the flesh of his neck, forcing his head up. The cold and callous question hanging in the air.

“ _Are you ready to die?”_

Dutch wanted it to last. Wanted the man to feel the same fear Arthur had. Wanted him to understand that there was no making him look like a fool, and not feeling retribution in return. Micah’s cursing had turned into pleads then, those pleads dwindling into attempted bargains. Words falling through bloodied lips and strangled gasps. The man promising money, loyalty, and undue devotion all in one breath. All the things Dutch thrived on. It fell on deaf ears. There was nothing the man could say to make amends.

Not even when he promised a life for a life.

A secret, something that he claimed only _he_ knew. Something that only he could prevent. A last, desperate attempt to weasel his way out of what he knew was coming. It was amusing. How much a fool did Micah think him to be?

“ _If you insist; you tell Matthews I'll see him soon enough; that cough of his sure is something. You'll be sorry, Dutch.”_

The threat clear, though weak. The man a pathetic weasel to the very end. How he had ever been enamored by him, Dutch was not certain. His mind awash with countless recollections. Taking him back to the very first time in meeting, of riding out together, of owing the man his life. Wondering now if even that had been staged. Both sickened and incensed by the knowledge he had been played from the very start. All made worse by the knowledge that everyone save for himself had seen it. What a fool he was.

He was shaking.

His fingers trembling as he brought the cigar to his lips, fumbling with the match. It took a few tries, but soon enough the heavy aroma surrounded him in a gentle embrace. The tension easing. Dutch leaned back against the tree, eyes peering through the branches and up into the sky above. Day was fading, swallowed up slowly by the impending darkness. He would have to return soon; no doubt the others would be waiting for him. Waiting to learn what truly happened. The speech was almost complete, rehearsing the words in his head.

He turned at the garbled scream, a complacent gaze sweeping over the half-submerged form withering in the mud. Dutch brought the cigar back to his lips, letting its earthy scent drown out the more potent smell wafting from the riverbank.

“You best save your breath, Mr. Bell; you'll need it soon enough.”

The response he received was another muted howl; the words indistinguishable. Dutch supposed a gag would do that, however. He had long tired of the man's prattle on the journey here, had happily tied the cloth extra tight. Had relished in the whimpers drawn from the man, the shocked gasp as he was unceremoniously dumped onto the cold muddy banks of the Lannahechee.

The tide was almost in.

How fitting, it was, for Micah to perish in the same manner the man had intended for Arthur. The dark thoughts had graced Dutch with their company long before they had even left camp. Death, he knew, was inevitable. Micah _would_ die. It was the fate of all traitors, a firm and fast rule amongst their small group. But the suffering he had caused, the torment he had intended to bestow on the rest of them, his vile tendencies...all of this was far too much to deserve a simple death.

There was another choked cry, a bemoaning wail, the thrashing ceasing for but a moment. Dutch merely watched, knocking ash off the end of the cigar. He had chosen a spot far enough off the road for this, ensuring they would not be bothered. Had even chased off the gators that had clustered there. They would be able to feast soon enough.

The thrashing started again, the man gaining a second wind. Choking breaths, spitting water out around the gag. Dutch had to give the man credit; he was a fighter. He took another drag off the cigar, eyes turning back towards the horizon, marveling in the beauty of the sunset.

A golden hue, tinged with pink, a burst of red. The silhouettes of boats rowing slowly by, headed north towards Van Horn, or perhaps Annesburg. He wondered mildly how many fish they had taken. Perhaps he, Hosea and Arthur could take a day, spend it on the waters here. Once Arthur was well enough, of course.

The sound of frogs slowly filled the air. Crickets as well. The last bit of sun fading behind him. A bluish-gray replacing the vibrant hues that had been there moments ago. Dutch turned, the silence apparent. The form dark and hard to distinguish, floating in the water. Slowly being pulled away by the incoming tide.

A fighter it seemed...but not a survivor.

Dutch stubbed the cigar on the bottom of his boot, flicking it off into the distance. Watching in silence as the body floated further out and into the path of waiting gators. Could almost pinpoint the exact moment it was taken. The animal nudging it first in curiosity. Disappearing with it soon after. Had there been more light, Dutch would have seen the blood pooling on the surface. As it was, he could barely make out the shapes that were now scattered in the water. He had to rely more on sounds, the fevered growls and grotesque clamor bringing him some sort of comfort.

He waited until the silence surrounded him once more. Even the amphibians and insects had seem to taken leave. Dutch pushed himself to his feet, dusting the dried mud from his pants the best he could. The Count was waiting, agitated as ever, and far too happy to leave this dreary place behind.

It was done.

Now was a time for healing. The Van der Linde gang would recover. They would sniff out any other potential threats, they would solidify and they would be strong.

Dutch wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.....
> 
> I know a lot of you have been waiting for this since Chapter One. I hope it satisfies...let me know if you agree!
> 
> There's still more to come yet, so hang around!


	10. Chapter 10

He had managed to get in a few good hours of rest before he was pulled, rather indecorously, from the depths of slumber by Dutch’s return. The man was hardly one to come in unannounced to begin with; seemed the egotistical bastard always liked to make an entrance. There was no difference this time. Or perhaps there was, if the response from the others indicated anything. Folk, it seemed, had been eagerly awaiting his return, and the clamor they kicked up was enough to wake the entire county. Hosea couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t been much inclined to share the details of their recent misfortune, feeling it best to leave it to Dutch to take charge of that matter. If the man was bothered by the welcome, it hardly showed.

His infinite self-assurance reverberated off every word, loud and clear, piercing through the darkness, rousing Hosea from his fragmented dreams. For a moment he simply lay there, trying to convince his tired and sore body to move. He hated being old.

Dutch, he heard, was still talking. A well-rehearsed speech by the sounds of it. Words dripping with genuine sorrow, laced with a twinge of anger and remorse. A prayer for Arthur’s swift recovery, the humble veracity of Micah’s betrayal, and the confirmation of his demise. A promise that they would not be fooled again.

Dutch really had thought that through, hadn’t he? Hosea rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pushing himself up, a stiff groan on his lips. His chest hurt; that vise-like grip clinging to him and refusing to let up. It had gotten worse, the further south they had gone. This wet and humid air doing no favors for him. The tonics he brewed had made a difference, had kept the worst of the pain at bay. Though it didn’t help much if he wasn’t taking it as he should. A problem he hoped to rectify in this coming day.

Charles – or perhaps Javier, provided the man returned from his fishing soon-could be persuaded to go collect the stuff for him. They were always apt to do so, kind enough to pass off the small bundle of herbs to him with little complaint. Hopefully neither man would mind a slightly greater imposition; he'd need more than usual these next coming days, seeing as though he'd be making enough tonic for two. He could still hear that cough, the sound distinct within the cacophony that had consumed the camp. Hosea could swear he even heard it in his dreams.

Pneumonia, the doctor had speculated. Bad business, that was. Seemed like infection was no longer their biggest concern. No...a festering wound they could deal with. They could pack it with herbs to stave off the worst of it, cut away putrescent flesh if it came down to it. Wasn't like they could cut out his lungs if they succumbed to the disease. They might have Arthur back home, safe within the confines of camp, but Hosea was no fool. The reality that they may still lose the man in the coming days was ever present in his mind.

He raised his head wearily, blinking in the firelight, his eyes focusing in on Dutch. The man stood off to one side, talking with several of the others, engaging with them more conservatively than he had been just moments ago. The speech, it seemed, was over. Most of the folk had dissipated, though still clustered in small groups. Sleep would be a difficultly for all of them, he gathered. Nothing to it, then.

Hosea went to move, hands pressed into the ground to work his way up, letting out a muted curse as the sudden pressure. Something small and hard digging into his flesh. He sat back down, fingers curling around the offender, frowning at the small pouch within his hands. The wooden clasp had left a fine imprint on his palm, but that wasn't what concerned him.

Hosea wasn't much for poisons himself, but even he recognized the distinct shade of oleander. Enough of the boys here used it on a routine enough basis that he had become acquainted with the plant. A rather unpleasant thing, if anyone asked him. Merely touching it could leave behind quite a nasty rash. And here, he had practically been sleeping on it. What a lovely thought that was.

“Damn fools,” he muttered under his breath, placing the pouch to one side, “really ought to keep better track of their things.” He would yell at them later. When he was less tired, perhaps. There were other, more important things to see too. Dutch mainly. Hosea pushed himself to his feet, working his way over towards the man.

He seemed chipper. Hosea used the term lightly. There was pleasant smile on his face, the man's eyes alight as he welcomed Hosea in with a clasp on his shoulder, the tepid conversation he had been carrying with Bill and Pearson replaced by a new enthusiasm.

“Hosea! My dearest friend. I take it our boy's homecoming went off without a hitch? Not that I have to ask,” he laughed, “I can tell that it did by the youthful glow on your face.”

“You've been drinking, Dutch?” he raised an eyebrow. Not that he would blame the man, given the circumstances. But this was hardly the time for drunken shenanigans. The man merely grinned at his latest accusation, hand thumping his back as he turned towards his tent. Hosea dutifully followed, shaking his head.

“I was thinking,” Dutch continued once away from prying eyes, expertly avoiding giving an answer. His tone brimmed with excitement and promise, a brightness to his words that set Hosea on edge, “the three of us take off. Leave this nonsense behind for a few days. We'll do some hunting, maybe some fishing. Steal a boat, head up the Lannahechee, see what trouble we can get into?”

The man had poured them drinks, had pressed the glass into his waiting hand. Dutch himself had nearly downed the drink in one single gulp. Hosea stood, dumbfounded, watching as the man finished the liquor off in a second gulp.

"We taking that boat to Tahiti, then?" Hosea chuckled softly, forcing a smile across his face.

But Dutch's thoughts went far too fast to catch the joking tone; instead, he swept past that remark and continued unabated, “What's that place? The one Arthur's talked about, up north? With the lake and the mountains?”

“Dutch-”

“He's told us about it before. Said there was some big fish to be had there. We could go, between the three of us, we're sure to land it!”

  
  
“Dutch, I really don't think-”

“We'll need to stop and get some bait. I'm afraid I used all of mine up the last time we went, and haven't had a chance to replace it.”

“Dutch!”

He watched, the man meeting his gaze, surprise etching his features. Hosea let out a sigh, his words slow and careful. He had only seen Dutch like this a handful of times. Knew he was close to teetering. Knew he would soon come crashing down.

“I really don't think Arthur is in the best condition to be traversing about the countryside. He needs his rest.”

“What better rest than out under the open stars, Hosea?”

“The doctor said-”

“You really gonna believe that incompetent fool?” Dutch exclaimed, a grin spread wide across his face, “Arthur is  _ fine _ ; why come morning, I bet you that he'll be right as rain! We set off by noon and we'll get there just in time to stargaze!”

He felt something bitter grow inside of him. It was too much like the last time. Dutch standing here, pretending as though there wasn't a thing wrong with a gaping hole in his shoulder. Pretending now that the way his lungs rattled and wheezed was a normality. The damn fool was more than drunk; he was delusional. He set his cup down.

“Arthur’s in a bad way, Dutch. He ain’t gonna be better, not for a while.”

There was little point in being delicate. Whatever this was that the man was on, was destructive. Nothing good would come from it, and Hosea was going to be damned if he simply stood here and watched it all unfold.

Not this time. He had done that already, had watched as Dutch pushed the younger man into acting before he was ready. Whittling and needling and breaking down every rational thought until there was nothing left. Until Arthur had pushed himself too far. The very reason Arthur had been out in the first place; trying to appease Dutch and his demanding ways. None of this would have happened had Hosea taken a simple step in stopping the madness before it had a chance to develop. 

Maybe.

Micah was one factor he couldn’t dismiss. This attack had been orchestrated; well thought out and planned. It was not a simple matter of opportunity. The thought had sat ill with him most of the night; the knowledge that the bastard had been plotting Arthur’s slow demise for a time occupying his thoughts. If it hadn’t happened now, it would have happened eventually. And perhaps, they wouldn’t have been so lucky. 

He let out the breath he had been holding. Watching Dutch’s face as it turned dark in response to his latest revelation. As though the man was battling a silent demon. Perhaps he was; Hosea had known him for far too long to pretend otherwise. He was almost afraid to ask the next question, but he needed to know.

“And Micah?”

“I handled it,” the man answered quickly, almost nonchalantly. He poured himself another glass, sipping it this time rather than guzzling. There was something strange within his eyes. A hint of anger? Malice? More like disgruntlement. Seemed like Dutch didn’t like any of his ideas questioned, no matter how ludicrous they seemed. The realization didn’t bother Hosea; he had known the man for far to long to be cowed by his changing moods.

“Do I want to know?”

Dutch, he trusted, had been thorough. There was no person out there that had crossed the man and lived to survive. That sort of forgiveness was not part of Dutch’s nature. He could forgive easily enough when forgiveness was to be had, but he was not one to suffer as a fool.

“Probably for the best that you don’t,” came the curt answer.

The way it had been said had sent a chill down his spine. His mind left to wander and fill in the blanks himself. Hosea watched as Dutch finished off the second cup, fingers absently reaching for the bottle once more. The man was determined to get drunk, apparently.

“Did he talk?”

Hosea was keeping the questions short on purpose. Blunt and to the point, wanting the information before he was too far gone. In the morning, when the man was battling a hangover, those bits and pieces of memories would be gone, dulled by liquor or simply lost to the wind. Dutch, he knew, would pass it off as no big deal, something that was done with, and no longer needing attention. But Hosea was no fool.

It was clear Micah had wanted several of them dead. A man willing to murder his own, was often willing to do other things as well. Hosea had been left wondering, if perhaps there was more to all their ill luck. The Pinkertons had been on their tails since Blackwater, sniffing about like hound dogs, and now Cornwall seemed to be popping up at every turn. Perhaps luck had nothing to do with it. Perhaps someone had been feeding them information.

Dutch set his cup down, hands resting on his hips, a frown marring his face. “Oh he talked. We had a real fine chat…real...real fine. We went fishing, even.”

“Fishing?” Hosea mused quietly, lips pressed tight, “Is that what you do nowadays? You take traitors out fishing?”

He watched as the man cracked a callous smile. 

“I do when they’re the bait.”

He should have figured. Hosea wasn’t sure what to think. A part of him was disturbed by Dutch’s amusement in such a dark deed, the other simply grateful the situation had been dealt with. Arms crossed, he leaned against the post behind him.

“So, what’s the plan then?”

Dutch looked at him, questions heavy in his gaze. “Same as always. One more big score, and we’re out of here Hosea. I can almost taste the mangoes now.”

So he was still fixated on that, was he? Hosea opted to brush past the fanciful remark, “You think we’re okay to stay here? Or should we send a couple of the boys out, find somewhere new?”

“Oh, we’ll be fine. There’s work to be done! I’ll send Bill and John out to deal with those Grays and you can take Sean and Charles out to meet with that vile Braithwaite woman you seem so fond of. What did say you two were getting at? Cribbage?”

He could hardly stand the game. Could stand that woman even less. There was something ill and repulsive about her and her brood of inbred vermin. All made worse by this damn ongoing feud; Hosea wished Dutch would just drop it, forget about it all. But once Dutch had his eye set on a prize, he was ever reluctant to forget it. Still he wanted to try. Was about to say something, when their exchange was interrupted, the flap of the tent pulled back.

“Dutch?” Molly had started, the mere sound of her voice drawing a grimace from the other. “It’s getting late.”

“Indeed it is, Miss O’Shea,” he responded dryly. “Please do excuse us. As you can, see we are in the middle of a discussion.”

“But Dutch-”

“I said, excuse us,” he cut her off, downing the rest of the cup. His third, if Hosea had been keeping track. She was miffed at that, and he couldn’t blame her. Hosea turned, resting a hand on her arm, his voice quite a bit more compassionate than what Dutch’s had been.

“Give us just a few, my dear. We won’t be long.”

There was still venom in her eyes, still agitated by the treatment she had received. Had been receiving. Their quarrels were nothing secret, hostile words far too venomous to keep sheltered by simple canvas. Both of them could yell something fierce, and at times it had him wanting to puncture his eardrums, if only to find a bit of relief. Still, his soft words had gotten to her, and he could see her nod, that pointed pout still on her lips as she ducked back out. There would be a quarrel later he knew. He could only hope he’d be fast asleep by the time it hit. 

Dutch, himself, was still fuming. One finger running atop the rim of the cup, the smallest indication of a snarl working its way onto his lips. Hosea cleared his throat.

“So, we still getting on with things, then?”

“Of course we are,” he snapped bitterly, turning towards him. “We are here, are we not? And you want to throw all of that away because of a mishap?”

Mishap was a funny way to describe it. It wasn’t the word he would have chosen. As though all of this was a simple miscalculation. Arthur had very nearly been killed; their entire group, dismantled from the inside out. Who knows how much more damage the treacherous bastard could have done had he not been found out? He went to point this out, to argue further, but was cut off by a new holler. One that was urgent. 

“ _Dutch?”_

Susan’s voice was strange. Usually it was shrill, demanding. That tone was still there, sure, but it was accented by something new. Something different. Something he couldn’t quite place.

Dutch didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he seemed vexed, that odd joviality he held earlier now gone. That scowl back on his face.

“Dutch! You- you best come in here!”

“Can’t go one god forsaken minute here without someone needing something from me,” the man nearly swore, pushing his way past. Hosea found himself following, almost warily. Susan’s tonality was still ringing within his ears, sitting ill-at-ease with him. He didn’t like it.

Liked it even less when he ducked into Arthur’s tent.

The rancid odor of bile assaulted him no sooner than he had. The man was seated, hunched over on himself, a half-eaten bowl of stew flung upon the ground. He was shaking, his arms wrapped tightly about his middle, Susan standing near him, hovering worriedly. Seems as though food had not agreed with him.

Hosea found himself moving even before Dutch, almost instinctively.

“Still feeling rough, huh?” he wondered, sitting near him. He risked a glance at Dutch, frowning at the man who stood fast. Hosea could already see those wheels turning in the man's mind, the desire to turn and leave, to pretend none of it was taking place a silent battle within him. It was surely an amusing thought, knowing Dutch couldn’t stomach this. After all, the man had straight up murdered someone in cold blood a few hours prior, the telltale stains still visible on his hands.

“He was doing just fine a moment ago, then out of nowhere he-” Susan continued when it was clear Arthur wasn't going to answer, though her reply was broken by another bout of coughing. The man's face was twisted tight in pain, his skin ashen and his breaths stunted, hitching within his chest. His eyes were half-lidded, squeezing all the more as he heaved again, a spattering of watery bile coming forth, followed by a mournful whimper. Hosea let his hand come down to rest on the back of his neck, thumb massaging gently into the flesh there, his voice calm as he spoke. 

“You're alright,” he told him calmly, humming a gentle tone, trying to ease the tension from the man's shoulders.

This, for him, was familiar. A practice he was all too well acquainted with. Dutch, it seemed, was rather indisposed whenever something like this came about. Busy making plans, following through with said plans; hell, the man had even gone scouting once when John had taken ill, a task the man all but despised. Willing to subject himself to that mundanity if it meant simple escape. So it was a surprise the man was even still here.

Hosea glanced over again, meeting the man's gaze, noting that Dutch's face perhaps just as pale as Arthur was. Though far more calm. Seemed as though the man was stuck fast, unable to move from where he stood. A shuddering heave brought Hosea's attention back around, an unhappy sigh breaking free. His other free hand reached up, brushing hair back from the man's face.

“Why don't you fetch us some water, Susan? See if we can clean him up a bit.”

“Why certainly,” she seemed less nervous than before, but her hands were still wrung together. “It's just...he was doing so well, and then….” she gestured loosely to the mess strewn upon the ground. 

“I think it may have been a bit early for food, is all,” he encouraged her. Prompted for her to fetch the water once more. His attention turned back to Arthur, voice calm as he spoke with him. 

“Why don't we sit you up a bit? Get you into some clean clothes here; you'll feel better.”

The man shook his head at the suggested, was still hunched over, an audible hiss escaping his clenched teeth when Hosea prodded at him. A curse breaking free soon after.

“ _...hurts.”_

The word was breathy and strained. There was little need for him to elaborate _what_ hurt. Not with the way his arms were wrapped about his midsection. His eyes were closed again; he was shaking. Hosea glanced up, watching as Dutch came near. The man careful to step over the mess, seating himself down on the other side of Arthur. And slowly he reached up a hand, resting it on the man's arm.

Arthur gave him a weak look, groaning as he turned away, breaths even more strained. He got sick again. The sight unnerved him. Something certainly had disagreed with him. There was a flutter, small and indistinct, whispering inside him. This...this was not normal.

“Come on, son,” Dutch had taken over, his voice strained but not quite breaking. Not yet. “You'll be just fine.”

There was a grunt, perhaps some sort of disagreement. The best the man could offer as another low whine escaped him. It didn't seem possible, but Arthur had tightened the hold on himself even more, another flash of pain crossing his features. That same whisper reappeared. Louder this time. More distinct.

He glanced up as the tent opened. Susan back with one of the buckets, as well as a cloth. The water was cool, Hosea carefully dabbing at his sallow skin. If possible, he looked even worse than he had when they first came in. The thought did not sit well with him.

“We should get him into clean clothes,” Dutch suggested, his voice still thin.

“We will,” Hosea agreed, not wanting to rush. The man looked as though he was about to be ill once more. “Gotta sit you up, Arthur, work with me now.”

There was a muted curse, a fast denial. The inclination to stay as still as possible evident within his features. Hosea kept a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to breathe, prompting him again after a moment had passed. Another shake of the head. They were getting nowhere with this, and worse yet, his complexion had not improved.

“Come on, my boy, this way then,” Dutch seemed to have found a renewed vigor, his voice stronger than before. He had wrapped an arm about the man's opposite shoulder, had eased him to one side. Encouraging him to come rest against him. Hosea was impressed. Not because he had managed the feat, but rather that he had taken the initiative to do so. It was so unlike him, and yet just like him all the same. It gave him small comfort.

Hadn't seemed to do the same for Arthur. His face still turned in pain, eyes screwed shut, his breaths shaky, already taxing cumbered lungs. Dutch kept talking, a montage of words that just sounded...wrong. Not saying much other than everything would be fine, that he'd be alright.

Because Arthur didn't  _ look  _ alright. 

His face drawn, still battling the unexplained pain, soft groans and pitiful whimpers working their way forth between Dutch's steady words. Arthur was shaking harder now, trembling in the older man's hold, drawing in sharp breath between clenched teeth. It triggered a fit, hoarse coughs worsening the whole ordeal. Hosea filled a cup with some of the water, encouraged the man to take some down once the fit had subsided.

It gave him pause. The cup still in one hand, reaching out tentatively with the other. His fingers brushed against the man's chin, edging it upwards, a thumb running over the man's lips, a worry brewing within him. They were easier to see now, positioned as he was. Still, Hosea reached for the lantern, held it close, ignoring the questioning words sent his way.

That, he was certain, was a rash. The very beginnings of one...the red splotches resting on his lips, his chin...it had not been there a moment ago. That whisper was back.

Though it quickly grew to an thundering roar as Arthur’s breath seemed to stick in his throat. The man suddenly sagged backwards into an unprepared Dutch, eyes rolling back into his head.

Dutch started, his face twisted with fear and confusion, and for once he couldn’t manage to grab hold of any words. His hands gripped tight at whatever piece of Arthur he could find; desperate to keep the man upright. To stop him from sliding off the bed and on the ground.

Then suddenly, as though it had been just a dream, Arthur’s eyes fluttered back open again. His mouth parted in agony. Each breath worse than the last. He blinked slowly; owlishly. His gaze unfocused.

Hosea’s stomach dropped. Something was not right.

“Susan,” he couldn't take his eyes off of him, off those red blotches that were slowly developing, at the heaviness in Arthur’s features. His gaze held fixed. “Did you… did he have anything other than the stew?”

That, he doubted, was the culprit. There would be others sick, if that was the case. No one else had taken ill. But he had been eating the stew when this had taken place. The man had been nauseous before, he had simply assumed that much hadn't changed. Not now. Not anymore. This was all too sudden, all too violent to be a simple disagreement. Rather something darker, something more sinister.

His heart was racing.

“Course not,” she answered, “he woke up and we talked a little; took some medicine, and said he was hungry. I went and got him some, didn’t even add any herbs, nothing of the sort. Thought it best to keep it bland...”

“ _ Nothing _ else?” he asked again, his voice harsher this time. He turned to look at her, watching her wide-eye expression. She paused, only to shake her head after. 

“Mister Matthews,” she scolded him, her tone faltering as his glare hardened. Her words not as sure now. “There ain’t been time for nothing else. He's only been up for a few minutes now. He wanted to go get the food himself, even managed to sit up on his own, but I made him stay here. Told him I didn't want him meandering all over camp when he should be resting.”

Her words rattled in his head. Hosea's gaze had turned back to Arthur, watching the pained expression, listening to the stunted groans. All of it coming together. Slowly. Surely. The pain he had complained about, the pallor of his skin, the violent shivers that had worked their way through him. It was almost as if...

He felt his heart stop. It couldn't be.

His mouth was dry, every sound about him ceasing to exist. The world about him drawing thin. He remember, somehow, that he needed to breathe. Hosea blinked, everything coming back to him at once; his head snapping up.

“Where's the vial?”

He hoped he was wrong. Prayed that he was. Memories, so indistinct and yet vividly sharp racing back to him. The oddity of finding his stuff incomplete. Of remembering things differently. Of finding that pouch, of tossing it one side without thought. Of the threat, so long ago and so faintly uttered by Arthur in the throes of delirium the night before. Of Charles rendition, of Micah's intention. 

_He kept trying to warn you_

The vial, empty now save for a faint trace of liquid at the bottom. The smell, sickly sweet, like fresh fruit. A smell he knew all too well. It couldn't be. His heart sank, his vision wavered, the fear strangling him. Somehow he pushed to his feet, hardly hearing the calls after him. The darkness greeted him as he stumbled out of the tent, blinking away the spots before his vision. Searching, heart hammering inside his chest, threatening to punch through. 

Charles...

The man already retired, fast asleep. Oblivious.

Until shaken crudely away.

“What?”

Angry at first, but that anger faltered on seeing his face. Hosea was nearly out of breath, words coming fast. Too fast. He had to ask not once, but twice, unable to explain. Just plead, begging for it. Praying that he had some.

A simple tonic of ginseng and yarrow. A necessity when working with oleander. The chance of an accidental poisoning was too great to not carry it along. And Charles, bless the man, took heed of the urgency in his voice. Took a moment to dig it out. Still took far too long.

The jar in his hand felt like a prize. The glass cool beneath his heated flesh. Seconds stretched long; too long. Oleander, he knew, worked fast; he had to be faster. Hosea moved as quick as he could, ducking back into the tent, fingers already working the top free. He paused, chest heaving as he took in the sight. 

Arthur pale in the dim light. Susan still standing, eyes wide and silent, hands wrapped tight over her mouth. Dutch, perhaps, looked the worse, face awash in pure shock. Tears beaded in his eyes. Disbelief coating every feature. That steadiness in his voice gone. Shaken. Broken. 

Afraid.

“H-Hosea...” the man swallowed, words hard to come by. 

“He's not waking up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Chapter 11

He remembers a time back, years ago, when they were all younger.

Arthur was fifteen, perhaps sixteen. Youthful, arrogant, petulant. Grating on their every last nerve. They had been traveling back west, out near California, had spent nearly a week on the road. All of them tired, all them worn, all of the testy. But Arthur? Arthur had been an absolute hellion. Arguing every step of the way, nearly biting their heads off at the _mere_ suggestion that he calm down. Determined that the entire world was working against him.

His back hurt, his legs hurt, his  _ass_ hurt. He liked to point that one out. The boy hadn’t grown up in a saddle, was still getting used to the whole riding aspect. What was worse, was the fact he utterly  _refused_ to listen to any advice they might have to offer, convinced that he had it under control. 

Dutch had lost it, after roughly the tenth time Arthur had brought up his woes. Had, if Hosea remember rightly, crudely told Arthur in the most vulgar way possible to cease his infernal complaining before he took the liberty of ensuring he’d never complain again.

It had stopped the complaints. About being sore, at least. 

Oh no; being sore was no longer the pinnacle of his misery. 

He was hot, he was sweaty, he was hungry. He was tired, he was bored. The list, it seemed, was never ending. Every whine grating on his every nerve. Dutch’s pain was visible, the man grinding teeth so hard even Hosea could hear it. 

Arthur had ever been a handful back then. 

They had lasted another hour before giving in, and finding a place to rest. Only halfway to where they had wanted to be. But  _anything_ was better than having to listen to the boy continue his pitiful lament. Dutch had set to building a fire, Hosea snagging a couple of hares to cook. He had tried getting Arthur to help skin them, but the boy refused, shrugging his shoulders and feigning innocence in how to accomplish the task. His voice drawn as he answered,  _“Why don’t you show me and I can do it next time?”_

Damn child was hellbent on making their lives miserable, it seemed. He wondered, at times, why they subjected themselves to such misery. Hosea had given up on his efforts, his attention turned to preparing the meat so that all of them could have full bellies. Maybe things would be calmer after the meal. In the meantime, Arthur had wandered off, and for a few, blissful moments, everything was quiet.

Until Arthur came stumbling back, tripping over his own feet, pale and shaking, spewing meager contents on the ground. Seemed as though he had gone off foraging, unable to wait a few minutes to eat something proper. Instead had taken a handful of berries, had shoved them down his gullet before taking note of what they were.

The damn fool.

Hosea had been working with him on identifying what was and was not safe to eat. Apparently his lessons had fallen on deaf ears. And now, they had a problem. Arthur succumbing to the poison coursing through his system, Dutch rooted to the spot in blinding panic; each staring down the other as time ticked by, far too slow and far too quick all at the same time.

Hosea had been the only one to act.

Knew what had needed to be done. Was lucky enough to have the herbs necessary to work as an antidote. It had been a long night, but Arthur had pulled through. Hosea saved his life back then.

Had probably saved his life here.

It was all to reminiscent. None of it in a good way. Arthur was still pale, his breath rattling in his chest. He still hadn’t waken; not really. Between the three of them they had been able to rouse the man to a semi-lucid state, enough to get him to take down the contents of the vial. Had choked on it more than he had drank. But it seemed to be working.

He looked relaxed. His face no longer caught in the throes of agony. The shaking had stopped as well. Still looked far to feeble, far too weak. Looking far younger than he ought to. The weight in Hosea’s chest seemed to multiply, a burning ache racing through his veins as he dropped his head in his hands.

He was spent.

Too many emotions raced through him in far too many wrong ways. A sick feeling, twisting his gut and squeezing his chest, making it all that more difficult to catch his breath. Between his hands, his flesh throbbed, pounding in accordance with his heart. Pressure had built up beneath his eyes and his neck screamed each time he moved his head.

He needed to sleep. Hosea knew the telltale signs too well. It wouldn’t come; he couldn’t even bring himself to try. Felt instead, the pinpricks of tears brewing beneath closed eyes. Quickly, suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath, angrily berating himself. He could not lose it; not here, not now.

“He’ll be alright, Hosea. You got to him in time; our boy is fighter; you know that.”

Dutch’s voice was calm; confident in a way he hadn’t heard for some time. Wearily, Hosea lifted his head, meeting his gaze, looking worn beyond his years.

“I _gave_ him the damn vial in the first place.”

“You didn’t know,” the reassurance came, far too soft and tender, “how could you?”

He should have known. That something wasn’t right. He _had_ known, had felt it in his gut. He had chosen to ignore it, because he was too damn tired to take one god-forsaken moment to question why his things were out of place.

He said as much aloud, each word bitter, each comment vile, dripping with anger until he devolved into a coughing fit.

“It should have been _me,”_ he managed to get out weakly, between hacking coughs. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And where would we be then?” Dutch seemed hardly put off by his explosion. “With no one around here clever enough to figure out what had happened? There’d be no hope in saving you.”

“Better me, than him,” he gestured weakly towards Arthur, the tears blurring his vision once more. Hastily he wiped them away, head dropping back into his hands. He would have willingly taken it a hundred times over if it simply meant sparing Arthur an ounce of the agony he had gone through. The man had already suffered enough under Micah’s hold, and now, it seemed, as though the man was reaching beyond his watery grave to wreak havoc one final time.

“It _should_ have been me, Dutch,” he repeated, quieter this time. “This is all my fault.”

The thought of what Micah had done, that fact he had crept in, undetected, had laced his medicines with the poison and no one was any the wiser, shook him to the core. Disgusted him; the mere idea the man had been in there, pawing over his things, messing with it all…

They couldn’t take any chances.

_Everything_ had been thrown out. Dutch had seen to personally while Hosea had wallowed in his grief. Every tonic, every ointment, every herb, every morsel of food, every drop of water; anything that vile bastard could have touched. What couldn’t be outright burned was dumped in the woods; the cookware was all scrubbed mercilessly with boiled water.

They didn’t even bother distributing Micah’s things. His possessions were simply tinder for the fire.

With the camp thoroughly purged and cleaned, folks finally felt apt enough to head out. To replace what had been lost. Dutch had dispersed the gang with a snarl, demanding they keep their goddamned heads down for once and to stay out of trouble. Some of the boys took off hunting, others accompanied the ladies into town, but everyone worked to replenish the camp.

They had to build themselves back up from nothing. It would take time.

But it seemed with Micah gone, they had plenty of that. Plenty of time to sit here and wait, to sit here and worry, to wonder when or if Arthur would...

Hosea swallowed, stiffening at the hands that fell on his shoulders. He hadn’t even heard Dutch move.

Fingers dug tenderly into his shoulders, moving down the span of his back, rubbing in soothing circles. Easing the tension from his stiff frame. Hosea could swear he felt the pressure dissipate with each gentle pass. He let out a shuddered breath; knew he was close to breaking.

“If anything,” Dutch told him, his voice almost too low to hear, “I should have... Micah-the god damn bastard told me. He _told_ me, Hosea, and I… I didn’t see it until…”

Dutch swallowed thickly, his hands pausing for a moment, and Hosea could feel a slight tremble set into his hands, one that settled after Dutch drew in a steady breath.

“You are not to blame for this; you hear me, old friend?” Dutch chastised him lightly. “This was _Micah_. No one else. You think Arthur is going to hold that against you? You think I do? Hell, ain’t a single person here that can; I’d like to see them try.”

He shook his head wearily and leaned back into Dutch’s touch. Not agreeing, but too tired to drum up a response. Despite everyone’s best efforts, Hosea hadn’t allowed himself to rest. He would burn in hell before he left his boy’s side; if this was to be Arthur’s last day on Earth, then he was going to be there for him. There was simply no other option. But he was so tired, and Dutch always had a knack for working potent, bitter stress out of his bones...

He forced his eyes open, pulling stiffly away from his touch, shaking that sleepy feeling from his body. New determination sinking in to fight the growing urge, to keep his vigil. To be there if Arthur needed him. He might have failed him before; it was a mistake he wasn't going to repeat. Dutch didn't say anything, not even as the man watched him fight off a yawn. Instead he sat, taking residency back in the chair near the bed. Dutch looked just as tired as he did, Hosea noted. Dutch, like him, was unwilling to leave. The curious couple, sitting with their unruly son as they had done so all those years ago. Seemed like some things never changed.

The silence stretched; awkward and uneasy, broken only by the rasping from the younger man. Even in sleep his lungs were straining. That rough, gravelly sound a constant reminder that if he recovered from this ordeal, he still had a whole other challenge that lie before him. There was another gasp, broken by cough, the pitiful sound unnerving Dutch.

Or at least, it seemed that way. The man moving to his feet. Flustered and fidgety, fingers looping in his belt. “I think-coffee. I need some coffee. I'll-”

He didn't even finish, just left. Hosea had to bite back a chuckle, shaking his head. Some things _truly_ did not change. The smile lasted a moment, before fading away as darker thoughts resumed. The heaviness returning. Dutch's words creeping into his mind. _“He'll be alright.”_

He had to be.

If he wasn't-Hosea swallowed. He'd never forgive himself. Hell, even now would never forgive himself for what had happened. Another bout of coughing caught his attention, Hosea lifting his head, surprise etching his face as he saw those bleary eyes blink open. Searching at first, before landing on him. Focusing on him. Arthur...his boy...was awake. He felt his heart sing.

“Hey there.”

Out of everything he could say, that was it? His voice had faltered, his heart skipping a beat. That worry, that tension that had started to creep in was washed away as he moved closer. Arthur closed his eyes closed, fighting off another cough, groggily opening them again once it had subsided. Hosea offered the cup, helped to ease him up, slowly let him drink. The man pulled away with a long gasp, a roughly muttered thanks as he was eased back down on the bed.

“I'm sorry, Arthur,” he couldn't stand it anymore. Had to say it, had to get it out in the open. Was more than willing to own up to his foolish mistake. Hosea watched as Arthur turned to him, confusion etched on his face.

“What you sorry for?”

God his voice hurt to listen to. Rough and gritty, like his throat was torn. Probably was, from how much he had been coughing.

“For this,” he motioned with his hand. “I was trying to help you-I didn't realize-I didn't know that he-”

“You ain't making sense...old man,” Arthur cut him off breathily, a low, but decidedly amused hum to his voice. “Gonna start thinking...you're the one...who got knocked in the...head. 'Stead of me.”

Hosea mentally cursed himself for his lack of foresight. Of course Arthur wouldn't have realized what had taken place. He had hardly been coherent to begin with; even less so after he had taken the fated drink. His tongue clicked against his teeth, trying to decipher the best way to explain. To the point then...

“Arthur-I-that tonic I gave you was poisoned.”

“Oh,” he paused, letting that revelation sink in. “Suppose that explains things...”

“Micah, I think,” Hoesa went on, “We think...we know it was him. It was supposed to be for me and I gave it to you instead-and I wouldn't have, believe me if I had known-”

“You're a right...old fool,” Arthur scolded him, his retort broken by a few coughs. “Right old fool...if you think you're....responsible for that... _snake_.” Despite the weakness in Arthur’s voice, he still packed an impressive amount of venom into that singular word.

“ _You think Arthur is going to hold that against you?”_ Dutch's voice echoed in his head again. Hosea bowed his head, eyes closing. Seemed as though the man had known what he was talking about. For once. 

“'M' glad...you ain't drank it,” Arthur muttered, drifting. The poor sod was too tired to stay up for long, it seemed.

“You'll be okay, Arthur,” Hosea told him gently. Had reached over with a hand, placing it on one of his. A thumb stroking the back of his palm. “We got you.”

Arthur acknowledge that statement with a grunt, his breaths growing heavy as sleep pulled him back.

It hadn't been much, but it was something. Something was easing in his soul, the guilt lessening. Another small smile crossing his lips. He squeezed his hand, beckoned Arthur to get some rest. Let him know that he'd be here for him when he woke next.

For a moment, there was no response save for Arthur's rattling breaths. Hosea was convinced the man was already fast asleep. He let go, sitting back in the chair with a sigh. Feeling a little better. A little lighter. Then the words, so quiet they were almost missed, but they carried a hint of mirth.

“...least it weren't berries this time.”

To that, Hosea laughed. A true, hearty laugh, one he didn’t think himself capable of. Knew, just then, that everything was going to be okay.

* * *

The days passed by in a blur. Each one a little better than the last. Arthur started feeling a little stronger, a little less worn, a little more like himself. Felt like the was healing-slowly, but healing, all the same.

The burn in his shoulder had lessened, and he found himself able to move his arm a little more. The ache in his head had nearly vanished as well. The pit in his stomach had eased. He started eating a little more. Started feeling normal. Almost-

Because that cough was still there.

He guessed he shouldn’t be surprised, given all that had happened. He _had_ nearly drowned, after all. His lungs burned, an ache in them he just couldn’t ignore. A tickle that lingered, unwilling to release its hold on the man and let him be. His chest rattled more often than not, and it seemed as though he could never get in a proper breath. And when he tried, he found himself breaking into fits. Wheezing and gasping after each episode.

Sometimes he didn’t even have to breathe deeply. It would hit him in the middle of night, wrenching him from a sound sleep, coughing so hard that Hosea would appear by his side without so much a word. The man would sit with him, bring him some brewed tea, wait until he drank it all before leaving once more. A routine that was becoming far too familiar for his liking.

He hated being weak. Hated being in-debt. Wanted to work.

He was chased away at every attempt. Seemed like Grimshaw had gotten into the ladies’ heads, convinced them that he was far too feeble to lend a hand. Hosea must have spoken with the boys, because everyone was quick at stepping up in his stead. And Marston, for once in his god damn life, had suddenly become _dependable_ , taking on the mantle of chores Arthur normally oversaw. Marston having the nerve to tell _him_ that he was in no shape to be doing such things. It flustered Arthur all the more, left him hollering at the man that he _could_ do something, before breaking into another coughing fit that all but proved the man’s point even more.

How he hated it.

Hosea had forced him to take it easy; to rest. Reminding him that they hadn’t gotten him this far only to watch him dig himself into an early grave-but Arthur was damn near certain he’d be headed that way regardless, if they didn’t let him do something. _Anything._ His fingers twitched, unhappily idle, nails digging into the palms of his hands. They’d only relented, begrudgingly, after Arthur hounded them mercilessly, happy to count bellyaching as ‘something to do’. After enough complaining, and a handful of vicious arguments, Hosea and Dutch were happy to set him to a task if only to get themselves a moment of peace.

They left him with Kieran, tending to the horses. Mundane work, but it kept his hands busy, and truthfully a part of him enjoyed it. Had always loved working with horses. As he tended to their small herd, he was overwhelmed with the idea that, if he lived a different sort of life, this is what he would want to be doing. It left him with a warm, calm feeling. Appreciative, as he worked to brush down the mare under his hands, who leaned heavily into his soothing touch. And for one, brief and beautiful moment, he had forgotten about everything that had happened.

Just for a moment.

Because suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

It hit him like a train. Smashing into him. Unannounced and violent. Spots dancing before his eyes. Stealing away all reason as he desperately tried to get his lungs to comply, to draw in a breath, to do _anything_ besides fester and die in his chest.

Arthur must have blacked out.

It was the only explanation he could reachwhen his mind slowly started working again. Because he couldn't remember. Couldn’t remember how he ended up on the ground. Couldn’t remember when everyone had pressed in around him. Couldn’t remember Hosea and Dutch, crouching down, each on one side of him. Couldn’t remember what it felt like to breathe.

He _did_ remember hearing Hosea suggest taking him to the doctor.

He remembered Dutch agreeing, which unnerved him, to say the least.

He remembered trying to argue, opening his mouth to argue. But instead of words, blood.

Panic laced through him, icy and violent. He scrambled and clawed until he could prop himself up, if only slightly. He was coughing up blood. _Drowning_ in it.

The palm of his hand covered in flecks that were wet and fresh. Haphazardly he wiped it off on the back of his pants, eyes trained ahead, a thousand thoughts racing through his head, all dredged up by the heavy undercurrent of terror.

He didn’t want to go. Didn't want to find out what was wrong. He could ignore it; pretend it wasn't real, push it aside, let it deal with itself.

He wasn't given a choice. Dutch and Hosea both were determined, helping him to his feet.

At least they had let him ride on his own. Hera needed to be exercised, having been cooped up at camp for far too long. It felt good to be out. It felt...normal...

Hera trotted easily along the path, sandwiched between The Count and Silver Dollar. Dutch and Hosea might have let him ride on his own, but they certainly weren’t taking chances. Still, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend this was a normal outing, the three of them were out, scouting for leads like old times.

Like he wasn’t slowly careening towards death. Like he wasn’t days, perhaps hours, away from choking on his own blood.

He couldn’t keep his eyes closed forever.

They avoided Rhodes. Tensions within that town were running high, and the Grays were becoming more and more uneasy as things went on. Dutch didn’t trust the quack of the doctor that worked there, muttering something foul about the sketchiness of the whole operation. Arthur listened, only partially, more lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts that were lost as the smog of the city slowly enveloped them.

Saint Denis greeted them like an old vice. Ugly, necessary, looming over them and casting them into shadows. Arthur knew where the doctor was; not from the time Charles had brought him; no, he had hardly been awake for that. Rather instead from the half-dozen unfortunate travelers he had dropped there. The dread settled in his stomach as they arrived. Seemed like he was that unfortunate soul now.

He didn’t want to go in.

Had to be prodded by Hosea, false encouragements hanging in the air between them. A chill washed over him as he stepped inside, a shiver racing down his spine. Arthur could feel the tickle in the back of his throat, needling at him, threatening to steal his breath away once more. He felt every set of eyes on him as he sat in that cold chair, the questions answered for him as he participated in the least way possible. Going through the motions when asked of him, but providing nothing beyond that.

The doctor sighed, pulled away to wash his hands. Dutch's voice a growl, demanding answers. The admittance that it was nothing good ringing through his head.

“ _He's got tuberculosis.”_

Arthur’s thoughts ground to a painful and sudden stop.

All that remained were those words, echoing in his head. Ugly and dark and all too real. He knew it had been bad. Didn’t think it could be this bad though. Didn’t think that he was-

Couldn’t even finish the thought. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at them. Didn’t want to see the disappointment he knew to be etched on their faces.

“ _I’m really sorry for you, son, it’s a hell of a thing.”_

Said like he was addressing the weather.

As though he hadn't just announced the fact he was fuckin' dying. Arthur closed his eyes, only vaguely listening to Dutch argue, the man's voice becoming heated, demanding that _something_ must be done. There was a hand on his shoulder; he didn't even look up. His heart, hammering in his chest as the the doctor responded.

“ _The best thing is rest, and getting somewhere warm and dry, and taking it easy.”_

He wanted to laugh. Might have actually chuckled. Rather felt like crying instead. Tahiti seemed like a far more possible outcome than what had been suggested. Getting somewhere dry was going back out west, where every Pinkerton and Lawmen would shoot on sight. And taking it easy? That certainly was not an option. Not for them. 

He slapped his hat back on his head, went to pull himself up. Stopped as the doctor grabbed his arm, allowed himself to be pushed back into the chair.

“ _Let me get you a bit more energy today.”_

Arthur didn't know if it worked or not. He was too consumed by his thoughts to really pay attention. The ride back shrouded in uneasy silence. The knowledge weighing him down. There would be no getting better. No coming back from this.

‘ _Don’t go digging yourself into an early grave, you hear?’_

Seemed like he was going to be doing that anyway. What a fool he was.

“What do we do, Dutch?”

Hosea had been the one to ask the question, breaking the silence as they slowly made their way back. Arthur didn’t want to hear the answer. Didn’t want to hear it because he already knew it. There was _nothing_ that could be done. No plan, no score, no dreams-even of Tahiti- could fix this.

“I don’t know,” the man finally responded, his voice quiet, “but we’ll-we’ll think of something. We'll fix this.”

“Ain't nothing that can be fixed, Dutch,” Arthur pointed out, voice slight and disused.

“You don't know that!” the man erupted with anger. Another of Arthur’s failures left to weigh on someone else.

“What?” Arthur growled, looking towards him, shame burning in his gut. “You done gone and found a cure for this thing? When no one else has? You got a plan? Cause I'm sure lots of folks be willing to pay just 'bout anything to hear it.”

“Arthur, now is not the time-”

“Might not have any _other_ time, Dutch,” he cut him off, snarling still. “And I ain't gonna waste what I got chasing dreams, I-”

He faltered, his thoughts racing far to fast to capture. What did he want? His mind simultaneously empty and full. He... _what?_ There were only a few things he truly wanted in life, all dreams that were long gone. A life with Mary, a chance for his son, the possibility of...of what? He didn't want to-didn't want-

“I don't want...” he started, his voice trailing off. He knew they were watching, knew because he had drawn Hera to a stop, right in the middle of the road. They were waiting, both Dutch and Hosea, for him to finish. Arthur swallowed, changing course when he found himself unable to finish.

“I don't want the others to know.”

A cop out. But he couldn't finish the thought that was weighing heavily upon his mind-he didn't have any say in that. It wasn't something he could change. But this? He _could_ change this. Could change how the others saw him. Didn't want them to hover over him more than they already had. Didn't want to sit there, and listen to their apologies, to their sympathies. Didn't want their pity. Wanted, if anything, to be treated as normal, for what little time he had left.

“Arthur,” Hosea let out a breath. “They're....They're gonna know something's wrong.”

“Not yet,” he pleaded, his voice quiet. “Just...I need time. To think it over, and I can't-can't have others-,” he let out a shuddered breath, “Just-please...”

“We won't say anything,” Dutch reassured him. The man exchanged a heavy glance with Hosea. Determined. Understanding. “Not until you're ready; but they need to know, son. And don't...don't you go giving up yet. Cause I swear to you, we _will_ figure this out.”

“Sure, Dutch,” he relented. Didn't believe it; not for one moment. The man was always optimistic, unwilling to take no for an answer. But even Dutch couldn't fight nature...

The rest of the ride back was silent. Camp waiting as soon as they arrived, Arthur's heart racing as those eyes fell upon him. He swallowed back thick bile, avoided them as best he could, tried to think of _something_ to say.

Dutch beat him to it. His voice calm as he reassured the others. Simply saying that Arthur was tired, that he needed to rest. It gave him a reason to slip into his tent, unbothered. He sat, on the edge of his cot, arms wrapped about his torso, elbows resting atop his knees.

His mind racing.

Even now, he couldn't still his thoughts long enough to drum up a plan. Still didn't know what to do. What _could_ be done, for such a certain death sentence? He wondered, coldly, just then if it was even wise for him to stay. If, perhaps, it was cruel for him to force his family to watch him linger and wither away helplessly. Wasn't like he would be able to help. Wasn't like he was going to get better. Wasn't like things were going to change-they would only get worse.

And they did get worse.

Because the next day, everything went to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we are....still cannon compliant, I'm afraid. Arthur pulled through this one, but seems like fate still has it out for him. And thank you, Jack! For helping to organize some of my thoughts on this chapter. Some heavy feels in this one. 
> 
> But...what's happened? 
> 
> I promise, one of these times I might end a chapter without a cliffhanger
> 
> Maybe...
> 
> Drop by and say hi! Let me know you're reading. I love hearing from you all :)
> 
> See you soon!


	12. Chapter 12

Despite Hosea and Dutch's insistence, he hadn't slept that night. Not for lack of trying. He had laid there on his cot, head propped up by an arm, eyes tracing the holes in the canvas that hung over his head as his thoughts consumed him. Dwelling over the smallest and most mundane things. Of memories long gone, of chances that would never come. In the silence he could hear the faint tick of his watch, seemingly counting down the seconds he had left on this earth, the sound boring into his skin, settling heavy within his gut.

What was he going to do?

The single, solitary question creeping up in his mind, time and time again. A question that, even now, he couldn't find an answer for.

_They're gonna know something's wrong._

Or perhaps they already knew. Arthur could tell in the way they had watched him. Knew by the whispers that drifted across camp. His tent a sanctuary from those prying eyes, from their probing words. Their curiosity. Their pity...he didn't want any of it. Yet there was no pretending it would be any different. 

So when morning came, eyes still open and heavy with weariness, Arthur forced himself up. Forced himself to step out into the open. Forced himself to keep pushing. Because try as he might, giving up was not an option.

Not for him.

Dutch often called him a stubborn bastard; a tenacious son of a bitch that didn't know when to stop fighting, and perhaps there was some truth to that. Arthur had always been a fighter. He had been fighting to stay alive every goddamn day of his life, it seemed. Ever since he was a kid, left to the mercy of his father. 

The damn bastard had beaten him half to death on a routine basis, and even the man's demise hadn't eased the trials and tribulations he had faced. Life on the street hadn't been easy, and those struggles only grew once he had joined Dutch. In some way they became harder; deeper, darker, more dubious. In others, it became easier. Having someone there, having a reason to keep pushing.

Those reasons, he decided, were still there. Made all the more apparent by Sean's death.The news seizing his thoughts.  


Arthur hadn't even been aware that the kid had gone to town, too consumed by his own misery to pay heed to anything happening around him. The Irish bastard hadn't even stood a chance, it seemed; the grisly tale descriptively relayed by John upon the man's return. His voice thin, hands clenching in anger as he swore, cursing the Grays. Cursing his own self for not seeing the trap that was so blatantly laid. 

Arthur found himself torn, his breath barely a whisper as Dutch's words echoed in his head. The man falling into another speech, one no doubt that had been said far too many times in these past weeks. There was grief there, overshadowed by shock, faint traces of guilt brewing deep within his gut. A dark and twisted relief filled him however as the attention was shifted away from him to something more gruesome. Something more pressing. He found it a little easier to breathe, but the tension did not ease.

Not even when he threw himself headfirst into his chores. At least no one tried to stop him this time, too consumed in their own worries. The burn in his arm matched the fire in his chest, the ache in his lungs becoming harder to ignore as he hefted the hay and scattered it on the ground for the horses. His broken coughs drew some attention, but he waved off their concern, drowning the violent torrent with a flask of water at the edge of the camp. His breaths were heavy, the tightness in his chest refusin g to let up. Arthur leaned against a tree,  eyes cast out towards the water, watching as the glow of the waning sun danced off the surface. 

Sean was dead. 

Even now, the kid was growing cold, buried within the depths of the earth. He hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye. Arthur couldn't even remember the last thing he had said to him. Ruefully, he wondered if anyone would remember his last words. 

He swallowed, pushing those thoughts aside, a commotion drawing him from his reverie. The panic hard-set, easy to hear even from this distance. He could see Dutch at the forefront as he closed the gap, the man trying to tame the frenzy that had been kicked up once more. His blood growing cold as the words hit him. 

Jack was gone. 

Taken by the Braithwaites, stolen right from under their noses. Another blow to their family, another piece broken. Hardly a chance to mourn Sean before the next calamity descended upon them and once more tore their camp to pieces.

Arthur felt a fire burning in his veins. An inferno consuming him, the anger tangible. Gone was his own fruitless melancholy; and in the ashes, something hardened, deep inside of him. He was moving before he even realized, had grabbed his things, had gone to mount, halfway there before he was stopped. A firm hand on his shoulder, the stern look in the man's eyes, Dutch pleading...no demanding, that he stay behind. 

He remembered answering that with a spitting remark. His words harsh and callous; the vision seared into his brain. The wooden cross far too small, overlooking a grave that was even smaller. The inability to protect that little boy projecting here and now, the desire to do what needed to be done driving him despite his own frailty.

If Dutch knew, he didn't remark on it. His own face set hard like stone, a fury all his own burning in his eyes. A reassurance that  _they_ would take care of it, said in a tone that left no opening to argue. Then the man had the audacity to  _remind_ him that someone had to stay behind to protect the women. He stayed, grudgingly, kicking at a rock in frustration as he was left behind in the dust. 

What a goddamn joke. 

The women, he knew, were plenty able to care of themselves. The ache in chest burned the longer he dwelt on it all. Growing all the more until it broke him down into another fit, scarcely able to breathe. In the end, it was the women who had taken care of him, forcing him to rest by the fire, a bowl of stew pressed into his hands. Each bite sat heavily within his gut, but Grimshaw refused to leave his side until he had finished, the food the first he eaten since the day before. 

Afterwards, he sat alone. 

The sun dipped low beneath the horizon; in its place, Arthur was bathed in the warm glow of firelight. He stayed here until well into morning, as the darkest hours of the day slowly trudged by without a single man returning home. 

Arthur startled awake when they finally did, unaware of exactly when he had fallen asleep. He rubbed the weariness from his eyes, pushing himself to his feet, hopeful. That hope dwindling at the desperation that was scorched into every fiber of their being. Each of them was riddled with ash and soot, absolutely reeking of smoke, only heightening his anxiety.

None of them would explain what they had done. 

Not even Dutch, who brushed aside his concern with assurances that it had been ‘taken care of’, and offering nothing else. 

They did, eventually, admit that Jack had been taken to the city. A solitary lead, hardly enough to act upon, but at least it was  _ something. _ And morning found them clustered around the table, gentle reassurances to both John and Abigail that they  _ would _ find the boy. The next plan slowly brewing, of figuring out their next move. 

He knew the city. Had been there often enough to know the streets, to have an idea of where to look. Arthur had offered to go, to see what might be found, but his offer was shot down almost as soon as it came forth. Dutch waving it off in such a cavalier manner that Arthur wasn't certain if it had been intentional or if the man was simply chasing his own thoughts. To him, it seemed as though Dutch was trying his hardest to not involve him in anything. 

It sat ill with him, his brow furrowing as he went to challenge the notion. He didn't get the chance. The opportunity to question it was overshadowed by yet another debacle, watching as the two men were marched in. Milton and Ross hadn't changed, still the same old fools that had crossed his paths all those months ago. They had given him a quick once over, had muttered something to the effect, before launching into their own tirade, the request almost humorous. As though simply marching up to the notorious outlaw and asking for a surrender would actually work. 

They were marched out in the same manner, and new, heavier weight resided on their shoulders. The threat hanging in the empty air. The knowledge that they couldn't stay here. Dutch's agitation playing on the mans face as he ran his fingers through his hair, bemoaning the arduous task of finding yet another place to call home. Clemens Point had been a sanctuary for them, but time was running out, and they were running out of places to go. 

Almost.

Because Arthur remembered it just then. Shady Belle was nearby, hidden from prying eyes, a fortress all its own. He could see the way the man's eyes lit up at the suggestion, the smile on his face turning up at the corners, the astute nod sending a bittersweet pang through him. Feeling like, for the first time in weeks, that he could finally do something right. Then his heart falling at the next words.

“We'll send Lenny to check it out when he gets back.”

“All due respect, Dutch, we ain't got the time to waste,” Arthur pointed out. Lenny wouldn't return until he saw the Pinkertons long gone, and as of right now, every minute counted. “I'll take one of the boys with me, we'll ride ahead and clear out the place. Lenny and I already done chased most of those last fools out of there. Can't be too many of them left.”

“I appreciate your ambition, son, I really do, but I think it's best that you take it easy. At least until you get-”

“Get _what?_ ” Arthur cut him off, his voice coming out in a hiss. It was just the two of them now, standing near the man's tent. The argument, he knew, was drawing attention, but he was passed caring at this point. He had held his speculations earlier, that the man was intentionally pushing him to the side, but now it here, out in the open, and no longer could be denied. 

“You need to rest,” Dutch answered pointedly, his voice equally as low. “At least get you better before you go off running yourself ragged.”

“There _ain't_ no getting better,” he growled in response. 

“Certainly won't be if you keep this up. Arthur, this is _not_ a discussion.”

“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna just sit here while there's folk that need helping. I’m already _dyin,_ Dutch, might as well-”

“ _That is enough_ _!_ ” the man snapped. Cut him off even when Arthur tried to plead once more. “You will do as I say. Do you hear me, Arthur?”

His voice was low, dangerous in a way he hadn't heard in a long time. Not since he was a kid arguing about the intricacies of a job gone wrong. There was anger there, set deep within the man's eyes. It matched the fury burning within his chest, his own anger morphing into something vile. 

But Dutch was Dutch...he was someone that Arthur had never been able to stand up to, despite every stupid harebrained idea the man had come up with. Mutely he nodded, teeth grinding so hard that it hurt as he stepped away. Still, it did nothing for the ache in his chest, the burn in his lungs. Another fit all but proving the man's point. 

Arthur found himself back in front of the fire, fingers gripped tight around knife and whetstone alike, hands shaking as he drew the blade down in rapid motions. His heart, pounding in his ears, deafening, the world around lost as he watched the sparks fly. The embers fading, dying...just as he was. Reduced to nothing but ash. If Dutch expected him to sit here and waste away to nothing then he...he would- Arthur swallowed, his fingers tightening all the more about the blade. The desire burning in him, scorching away every other rational thought. Consuming him.

He startled as the hand landed on his shoulder. The movement startled John in response. The man pulling fast away as though he had been burned. The concern easy to read in his eyes. It took Arthur a moment, to swallow back the dark cerebration. To spit out a response. To get him off his damn back.

“What the hell do you want, Marston?”

“You know the way to that place?” he pretended, just as much as he, that nothing had been wrong. 

“What place?”

“Don't be an ass,” he growled. “Dutch wants us to go check it out.”

_Us._

For a moment he stilled, thinking he had heard wrong. Had Dutch not just told him otherwise? Quickly his eyes traced camp, frowning when the man was nowhere to be found. Their recent clash echoed in his mind, the agitation still reverberating in his head. Maybe someone had talked sense into Dutch's head, or perhaps John hadn't heard the spat and was simply taking initiative. Unlikely. Arthur pursed his lips, unable to place exactly what it was. Still, he would never pass up an opportunity to get out oft his godforsaken place. He sheathed his knife, moving to his feet with a nod. 

“Alright then, let's go.”

* * *

He was often called a fool and perhaps he was; but he knew one thing for certain, and that was the fact that _something_ was up. Dutch and Hosea both had brushed off his concerns, had told him it was nothing to worry about. But he knew Arthur, knew him well enough that he was not fooled. They had grown up together, after all. John himself was eleven or twelve when Dutch had picked him up. Plucked him straight from the noose, sped him away from the angry mob that was so fit to hang a child for trying to feed himself.

He remembers that night well. Carried into camp and dumped unceremoniously in front of the fire. Right in front of Arthur. He had been a young man in his twenties but still easily twice his age, formidable and frankly kind of terrifying. There had been a miffed look on his face as he moved to his feet, the man motioning with a knife and snarl, the pointed words falling from his lips.

“ _What the hell is this?”_

“ _He's a child, Arthur, what did you think he was? A pony?”_

And so began their strange relationship. Despite the man's intimidating demeanor, Arthur was the closest thing to a brother that he had, and oh how the man hated that term at the time. Wanted nothing to do with him at first. Went out of his way to leave him behind at every opportunity, growling unheard words beneath his breath whenever Dutch forced him to bring John along on mundane tasks. The man did so grudgingly, because it was what Dutch wanted, and nothing more. Barely said a handful of words to him during those times.

He didn't get to go all the time, however.

John remembers that all too well. The times he hadn't been wanted. Left behind in the dust with the women, too young to ride off with the men. Too young to share in their laughter, their elated grins as they returned with their spoils. The jealously growing. He could remember the way Arthur's face fell into a glower whenever John begged to join. The man spouting off one excuse after another to why he wasn't the right man for the job. Seemed to him that Arthur was trying to his hardest to get rid of him. He remembers when that changed.

It was the first time he saw Arthur kill someone.

He had been about sixteen then. Had been running jobs for a time by then. Mostly it was the four of them, all working together to pull off a scheme. Sometimes it was just the two of them. Arthur always taking the lead, always reminding him of what to do and what not to do as though he were a damn child.

It was supposed to be a simple house robbery. An old place hidden in the woods. Rumor had it that some bank thieves were holed up there, and Dutch had sent them out to do some poking around, see if it was true. They hadn't expected trouble, and the place had seemed quiet enough. He had sauntered in, none the wiser.

John knew he had been a fool. Knew he had let his guard down. The fact all too apparent when the muzzle of the gun pressed against his head, the warning snarled right before the shot rang out.

It hadn't killed him. Arthur's gun smoking as the man moved out from the shadows, an fearsome snarl on his face as he stormed over to the pair of them. John strewn out on the ground, shaking, ears still ringing, his assailant withering on the ground in a mess of blood. Arthur, in a rage, screaming dark curses as he beat the man to death, spitting the words out.

“ _Ain't nobody that messes with my brother, you hear me, ya fool?”_

He doubted that the man heard him. Not with half his face caved in. John heard him though. The words sitting heavy with him for the rest of the night. Arthur had hauled him to his feet, had checked him over with bloodied hands, his voice fallen back down to the gentle gruffness he was used to. 

“ _You're going to be just fine, kid.”_

They had spent the night in the woods, before returning to camp the next day. Not a word spoken between them about the incident, but John never forgot. It was the first time Arthur had called him brother without the added sarcasm.

He wasn't afraid of Arthur after that. Not anymore. Despite the anger that rested on his face, despite the bitter retorts that fell from the man's lips, despite the merciless teasing flung his way, John knew. Knew that there was a different side to the man. Knew that Arthur would always be watching out for him. And he had done so, nearly every damn day of his life. Had saved him from more scrapes than he could count.

Arthur liked to call him a fool, liked to remind him of his stupidity, the insults growing worse since he returned from his brief departure from the gang. Hosea had told him his actions had hurt the man. Had urged him to be patient, that Arthur would settle down. John had watched it happen, slowly, but surely, the animosity between them dissipating until reluctant tolerance was left between them. And he hated it.

Hated seeing Arthur like this. The man a step shy from a complete breakdown. The anger, even now, still etched into every crease on his face, the frown ever present. He knew. Knew that something had happened. That something had changed. The way the man had doubled over on himself, collapsing into the dirt in a frenzy, lips tinged blue as he had gasped for breath the other night.

He had wanted to go with them. To the doctors. Had been steadfastly denied. Once again left behind in the dust. Kicking up memories from long ago. All made worse by the fact that _no one_ would give him straight answer on their return. Dutch playing it off as though it were no big deal, Hosea flat out ignoring the question. And damn it all if Jack's disappearance didn't come at a more convenient time.

Yet another worry weighing him down.

He hadn't done right by the boy. Hadn't been there for his birth. Had continued to ignore him as much as he possibly could. And worse yet, he had lashed out whenever Arthur had tried to step in. Angry and jealous as he watched the man with the boy. Feelings he couldn't place or even sort. Arthur's rebuttal still playing in his head.

_If you say the boy ain't yours, what's the difference?_

He was afraid. Afraid that the boy was his. Afraid, perhaps, that the boy wasn't. Afraid to step up and take that responsibility. Those thoughts running through him as they had stormed the manor last night, a faint inkling that this, all of this was wrong. Sean was dead, Jack was missing and they were no closer to finding him than before. He had watched the place burn at Dutch's insistence, decades of work reduced to ash. What a god dam mess it all was.

And Arthur?

He slowed his horse, bringing Old Boy to a stop in the middle of the road. Arthur following suit, bringing Hera around to face him. The confusion replacing the bitterness that was there. His face worn, drawn, the exhaustion apparent.

  
“Come on, Marston. We ain't got all day; gotta get this place cleared out, and the folk moved before the Pinkertons come back with their army.”

“What happened?” John ignored the comment. Knew the man was right, but the incessant need to know was overwhelming.

“Shit's happened,” Arthur snapped at him, “you know that as well as I do. Now come on, let's move.”

He turned his horse around, urging her into a canter. John followed, calling after him gruffly.

“I didn't have to talk Dutch into letting you come, you know. Could have left you behind.”

The taunt worked, the older man drawing short, turning back to face him. “What you want? A medal? Why'd you go and do that anyways? Make you feel better about yourself?”

“I want an answer, Arthur,” he spat out with his own anger. “Dutch and Hosea won't tell me nothing; you owe me that at least. _What_ did the doctor say?”

He was met with silence. And for a moment, he suspected he wouldn't get an answer. The man turned away, gaze lost in the distance. It seemed as though if he was wrestling a beast, the turmoil easy to see. His lips were pressed tight, his voice cold as he finally answered.

“Nothing good.”

He suspected that, already. It was hardly an answer. He thought, trying to get the words together to probe some more, but found himself unable to. He wasn't so sure if he wanted the answer anymore. The silence stretched, hanging around them, heavy like fog, the stillness of the afternoon apparent. Old Boy shuffled under him, pawing at the ground, head shaking away the flies.

“What happened with the Braithwaites?” Arthur was the first to break the silence.

“Nothing good,” John echoed the man's first response. Last night had been seared into his brain. The less he relived of those memories, the better off he would be. He met Arthur's gaze, wondering where, from here, they would go. This terse silence doing them no favors.

“We'll find him, John. He'll be fine. Dutch is right, you know...ain't no one taking little boys to hurt them. They just wanna scare us, is all.”

So that's where they were going with this.

“Saint Denis is a big place,” he responded in turn. He wondered, mildly where in the hell would they even start. Wondered if Jack was truly alright. Even if he was, the boy must be terrified. John let out a sigh, following Arthur as the man took off once more, this time a slower pace.

“We will find him. Just...trust Dutch, alright? We'll work it out.”

Trust Dutch? Right now the man wouldn't even give him a straight answer. He found himself watching Arthur again, wrapped up in the same steady facade, acting as though nothing about this was wrong. John cleared his throat, the question coming out before he could stop himself.

“Arthur...are you...dying?”

For a beat, silence. The clomping of hooves the only whisper of sound. Arthur didn't even betray his emotions, his face set hard, gaze straight ahead. The answer coming soon after.

“We all dyin, John. Just some of us quicker than the rest.”

“That's not what I mean, and you know it,” he spat out. He heard the man sigh, a long breath.

“Look, it ain't good, alright? And I ain't getting better; that's all you need to know.”

He felt the curse falling from his lips. Feeling, perhaps, more emotion now than he had when he had heard about Jack. Felt as though he was slowly, but surely, losing everything. First Jack, and now Arthur? A burning rage was growing inside of him, the thought hitting him just then. This was all Micah's doing. Even since before Blackwater, the man a curse. Pushing Dutch to do that ferry job, convincing them to meet with Colm. Every bad decision somehow had him at the forefront. And it was no secret that Micah had tried to take matters into his own hands, had attempted to finish Arthur off. And now? Even after the man was dead and buried?

“God damn Micah,” he swore again, hands trembling as his fingers clutched at the reigns. A thousand deaths were not fit for such a monster. Ahead of him, he heard Arthur sigh bitterly.

“Micah was a traitor and a bastard, but this weren't Micah's fault. Not this time.”

“Whatcha going on about?” he growled, the anger still burning in him.

“I've had plenty of time to think, John, and well, he weren't the fool that beat a man half to death for a measly sum of money,” Arthur replied, his breath thin.

John pulled Old Boy to yet another stop, the animal chuffing under him. The words sinking in, memory faint, but there. He could see it in Arthur's gaze, the man turning back towards him, calming his own horse with a gentle pat to her side.

“You remember Downes? That farmer?” he prompted quietly.

“That the fool collecting on the streets? Back in Valentine?” he remembered, briefly, the argument that had occurred. Arthur calling Strauss a fool for lending the man money. How the man had been ready to drop dead any minute. John could recall, even then, the blood that still stained Arthur's hands. That had been so long ago now. He heard the man sigh, watching him as he nodded.

“Only person I've been around that's been sick like that.”

“There's gotta be something, Arthur-”

“Ain't nothing to be done,” the man cut him off, “and right now, we gots bigger problems to worry about. So you listen to me; we gonna go take care of this business here. Get the folks settled in, and then go find your boy. It'll work out; you'll see.”

Arthur didn't wait for him to respond. He simply turned his horse, urging her onward, leaving John no choice but to follow. Even facing death the man was there for him. Watching over him. Had always been watching out for him, it seemed. John bit his lip, the pair of them riding through the trees, the house rising before them.

Take care of business here. Get folks settled in. Find Jack. Save Arthur...

He had a list, the mental notes in his head. Ticking of the objectives one by one. Arthur had always been there for him.

John was going to try his hardest to be there for him.

After all...what else were brothers for? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, apologies for the late chapter everyone! I struggled with this for a time, and I'm still not real happy with it to be completely honest. I hope it's not to much of a let down. We've got a few more chapters left in this little monster of a fic, so I hope you're sticking around for it with me. Hope to hear from you all, and hope your day is going great!


	13. Chapter 13

His chest burned.

He wondered if perhaps that was due to how he was sitting. Unlikely. The thought toying in the back of his mind, knowing that it more likely due to the heaviness that settled around him. Buried deep within the swamps, Shady Belle was a perfect hiding place, but it was also rife with humidity; the air thick and dank, leaving him to wonder if this _had_ been the best choice after all _._ _Get somewhere dry,_ the doctor had said. _That's his best chance..._

And this was anything but. He could almost see the moisture in the air. Could certainly feel it, the way it coated his skin, his hair plastered against his face. He was starting to regret ever coming this way. Certainly didn't remember it being that bad last time he had come with Lenny, but he had been healthy then. Hadn't been...

Arthur swallowed back that last thought. Concentrating instead on breathing. As it were, each breath was a struggle; it left him feeling as though he was trying to breathe through a bandanna that been thoroughly soaked in sweat. He could barely draw in enough air to just keep calm, let alone to try and slow his racing heart. Every shallow breath he drew laced through him, a tickle in the back of his throat, threatening to overtake him. Worried him. The last thing he needed now was to break into another fit, but it was pestering him, trying to push its way forward.

Arthur swallowed it back, dully staring ahead, eyes tracing over the house in front of them. He let his gaze wander, grimacing at the small bite of pain before he looked away, his chin falling to rest against his chest. Tried to draw in another deep breath. He wondered how much longer this was going to take. The thought changing, a curse as another bite of pain raced through him unexpectedly, causing him flinch. Arthur growled, fighting the urge to pull away as the curse fell from his lips, snarling.

“Christ Marston, what the _hell_ are you doing back there?”

“Calm down, I almost got it,” the man replied, hardly put off by the question. Arthur could feel one hand resting steady against his shoulder, the other...the tip of a blade, nudging into his flesh, causing him to flinch once more.

“Almost got it,” Arthur grumbled, mocking him, cursing as another stab of pain raced through him. “Trying to flay me alive is more like it.”

“Quit complaining,” John scolded him, his voice gruff. “You act like this is the first time you've had a bullet dug out of you.”

“Yeah? Well you're acting like it's the first time you've done dug a bullet _out_ of someone. At this rate, I'll be dead by the time you finish. Just stick the knife in and get the damn thing out, you fool.”

“Well I ain't the fool that got himself shot,” the man reminded him, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice. “Next time I tell you to wait, you wait. Instead of just racing in there. You're lucky all they had was a varmint rifle.”

“You just worry about your own self, you hear?” he huffed, waving the man off, his face falling into a grimace. He didn't like being told what to do, especially by him. Still, a part of him knew John was right. Knew he should have waited for the other to catch up. The place had seemed quiet on their arrival, and John had gone to circle the place first, had _asked_ him to wait; Arthur had chosen to ignore that, indignantly, and moved straight in instead. Perhaps he was overconfident in the job he and Lenny had done the last time they were here. 

Lucky for him, the place  _was_ nearly empty. There were only a few of the bastards left, but one of them had gotten the jump on him, had been hiding behind the door. Had fired soon after Arthur had stepped in the room. It hadn't taken long to dispose of him, his body slowly decaying, still draped over the floor where he had had fallen. 

Arthur, for the most part, was  _fine._ He had it handled. Would have gladly ignored the burning in his back had it not been for John dragging him out, and all but forcing him down. The man insisting to it, taking matters into his own hands. Even threatening to drag him  _back_ to Dutch to face the man's potent wrath if he refused to comply. 

For Arthur's part, he could only swear, giving into the infuriating demands. Seemed as though the damn fool knew exactly how to get under his skin. Arthur supposed that was a result of growing up together, of knowing each other for more than a decade. Dutch meant well, he knew, but the man would never let him out from under his watchful eye again if John followed through with his threat. He still might not, given the circumstances. 

Because Dutch was going to be pissed. 

“You know Dutch is gonna kill you for this, right?” John mused quietly, seemingly picking up on his thoughts.

Arthur laughed dryly. He'd be lucky if that was all Dutch would see fit to do to him. The man had been adamant in not letting him out of sight since this whole damn mess occurred, and the first time he had...his voice was humorless as he answered.

“Yeah...probably.”

“And then he'll kill _me_ for talking him into letting you come. Think he'll take the time to bury us, or just toss us in the fire?”

To that he scoffed, unable to stop the retort, “Ah, you'll be fine; Dutch can't afford to lose any more guns. Even one with half his brains missing.”

“I ain't stupid, Arthur,” John defended himself, “Besides, with all due respect, I ain't the one who got himself shot.”

“Got a point there,” Arthur agreed, wincing at the jab of pain. “But you know what? Dutch ain't gotta know everything.”

He heard the man sigh behind him, felt the hand leave his shoulder. All but ignoring that last bit, leaving him to wonder if John intended to say anything. Unlikely; there had been plenty of shit the two had been involved in, neither of them breaking truce, secrets all their own hidden away. Truthfully, if Dutch and Hosea knew all the trouble they had gotten themselves into over all these years, they'd most likely be six feet under from the stress alone.

“There, think that's it; lemme clean you up and you should be fine.”

“'Bout damn time,” he swore, wincing at the burn from the alcohol that was dumped over the open wounds. That part always stung, no matter how well he was braced for it. But at least it was done. He felt the tension ease, letting his shirt drop back down. Gingerly he reached over, fingers toying with the brim of his hat, before setting it back on his head. He felt utterly drained. John moved across from, sitting down a few paces away, the man's eyes tracing over him warily.

“How you feeling?” The question was tentative, uncertain. As though he was expecting him to collapse right then and there.

“I ain't just gonna drop dead, you know,” Arthur grumbled, irritated by the sudden hovering. There had been too much of that as of late; it was getting tiresome.

“I know that,” the man agreed hesitantly, watching him still, “Ain't what I asked though-you sure you doing alright?”

“Oh I'm fine. Right as rain.”

“You _can_ talk to me, Arthur. I know we haven't been on the best of terms lately, but you can...you know-”

“I know,” he cut him off, choosing that moment to look away. Emotions that were strange, almost forbidden, were surfacing; threatening. He did his best to push them down, to ignore them. All these damn years he'd spent taking care of the others, it almost felt blasphemous to be on the other end. To know that the were others there, that _someone_ had his back. He didn't rightly know what to think of it. Not just yet. He let out a sigh, doing his best to turn the conversation away, focusing on other matters.

“Look, John, I appreciate the offer, but we have other things to worry about. Best we keep our cool, and be smart about all this.”

“Too late for that,” the man shook his head. “We stirred up all that trouble, and for what? Sean's dead, Jack's missing. The poor kid, he didn't choose this life, we did.”

“Did we?” Arthur wondered sourly, looking up at him. “Ain't like either of us had much of a choice.”

“Guess not. Been a long time now, hasn't it?” John wondered quietly. The man was hunched over now, fingers plucking at the bits of grass in front of him. A pile slowly forming at his feet. “Dutch always says we're fighting to reform society, to make it into something better...but I wonder if that's what we were ever doing. Sure in the hell doesn't feel like it.”

“We're a bunch of thieves in a world that don't want us no more,” Arthur agreed grimly, the knowledge all too certain. They used to do good, years ago when it was just them. They used to help out the poor folk, and cared for those that needed caring. Somewhere down the line that had been lost. Their bounties grew, and with that, the pressure. The law always on their tails. Before long it seemed as though they never had enough time, never had enough money. Only enough for themselves to scrape by.

The found themselves having to move, to leave everything behind, simply to survive. The thought of helping others became just talk. The compassion just a dream. That compassion had dwindled and died, slowing until it was nothing more than empty words, like one of Jack's storybooks. A placation and nothing more. In this story, though, any fool could tell they were the villains. And the villains never came out on top. The thought sat heavily in his gut.

“So what do we do now?” John wondered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Now?” Arthur shrugged, chewing on his lip. “Well, I reckon we go get the others, get them in over here. Then we go about finding your boy; figure out where he is, and how we gonna get him back.”

To this, John said nothing, his eyes downcast and seemingly unable to hold his gaze. He looked, suddenly, far younger than he was, Arthur remembering him as the scrawny kid Dutch had dragged in all those years ago. Seemed like forever ago, and yet felt as though it had all just taken place. He cleared his throat, waiting until John raised his head, meeting his eyes.

“We _are_ gonna find him; he'll be alright, you'll see.”

“I ain't been much of a father to him,” John admitted quietly.

“No you ain't,” Arthur agreed, almost regretting his words as soon as they were spoken. He saw the younger man flinch, almost as though as he had been slapped. A part of him wanted to take it back, something small inside of him knowing that John was already dealing with the burden of guilt. A larger part, however, wanted to keep driving. To make the man understand the reality of the situation. 

Because John _hadn't_ been there.

The fool had taken off, no sooner than Abigail had started showing. Arthur could well remember that night she had confronted him. The accusations that were flung about in wild fury. A storm on the verge of breaking free, nearly consuming them all. Sides had been taken, some with Abigail, some with John, and ultimately it had been Dutch who had silenced them all. Pushing for them all to leave the matter be, promising everyone that they would figure it out. But come the next morning, John had disappeared.

Dutch was convinced the man needed time. Time to process, time to accept it all. Certain he'd return once that had happened. But days dragged by, turning into a week, and by the second week, Dutch had sent Arthur off to find the fool. Not that there was anything to be found. Just a letter that had been left at the local post. The scrawling simple, a baseless apology, a demand to be left alone.

The simple act had seared something bitter into Arthur, who had returned back to camp with the news, sullen and resentful. A part of him had never forgiven John for that. Even now, with the man in front of him, laden with guilt, that bitterness burned. Arthur wasn't quite ready to let it go.

Because _he_ remembered.

Remembered those sleepless nights spent by Abigail's side, trying to console her. Her tears breaking through his false promises of how everything would be alright. Damn did she ever love that fool, for reasons he could never understand, and he had gone up and left her when she needed him most. John was probably lucky that Arthur hadn't been able to find him, because he had been damn near ready to shank the fool.

John hadn't been there the night Jack was born.

Hadn't been there for those first months.

Shit the kid had almost been a year by the time the man returned. Bill had found him wandering, half drunk in the nearby town, had somehow convinced the man to return. And how he had ever been welcomed back with open arms.

There had been a celebration that night, embracing the return of a lost brother. Dancing and drinks went hand in hand, Dutch spouting off a multitude of speeches, the merriment carrying on well into the early hours of the morning. It had enraged Arthur; that fury burning deep inside of him. He had stoutly refused to say anything to the man, and in turn, John had ignored him. That might have been the end of things. Had John not also ignored Abigail, as well as his own damn son. Choosing instead to drink himself stupid once more.

He had let it stew during the night, and the next day Arthur had dragged him out of camp before the sun even rose, unable to hold back anymore. An entire night drudging up the foulest and worst things on his mind broke free, and Arthur found himself screaming at that inebriated man in the early light, their spat shrouded within the woods. John, it turned out, could scream back just as well. It had led to a fight, the both of them bloodied and bruised by the end, collapsed in the dirt, short on breath. Curses were exchanged, and John had been the first to limp off, realizing perhaps just then that he'd never be forgiven for his foolishness.

Arthur had hoped he had beaten some sense into the man back then. Hardly seemed like it. He and Abigail had reconciled, tentatively. He had tried with Jack, grudgingly, but every opportunity of escape that presented itself was like a siren's call for the man. Far too alluring to ignore, and as always, the man was a beacon for trouble. How he was still alive, after all the shit he had gone through, was a mystery to Arthur. Luck, pure and simple, he decided. Nothing more to it. That bitterness still there, burning in his chest. Hosea's words surfaced, nagging him, pleading with him to let it go.

Better now than never. After all, who knew how much longer he had left? Arthur shook his head, breaking the silence.

“Look, you're a damn fool, ain't no one gonna argue about that; but you know, it ain't too late to fix things. Jack deserves better and you...well, all this shit that's happened? None of us are long for this world if we keep going as we are.”

“What you saying, Arthur?” John wondered, lifting his head just then.

He pursed his lips, thinking over his words. Wondering himself to precisely what he was getting at. The thought had been there, for a time now, resting quietly beneath other pressing matters. Surfacing briefly after every damn heist that had gone foul. Growing all the more. And now? Now, in the quiet of the afternoon, it was resurfacing, clawing itself out from the dark depths of his troubled mind, demanding attention. Arthur met his gaze, the words coming easier than suspected.

“I'm saying you should leave; once we get Jack back. You take Abigail, and the boy, and you folks get on out of here.”

“Arthur...Dutch has a plan-”

“Dutch _always_ has a plan,” Arthur cut him, dismissively waving a hand with a scoff. “Look, I love Dutch; he's like a father-to the both of us. But we both know this ain't gonna work out. Things like this-well, they don't ever end nice. Law's already caught up to us twice, and next time? Well I ain't so sure they're gonna be as cordial as they was last time. Way I see it? This is over.”

It hurt to say. A small piece of fear breaking off. Shattering loose inside of him, overwhelming him. He had fought for Dutch, for Hosea, hell for all them for so long now, that chasing anyone off seemed wrong. Wrong in far too many ways. He was a fool more often than not, but even he was starting to see the reason here.

Because where did they go from here?

Shady Belle would hold them for a few days. A few weeks if they were lucky. But they were running on fumes. The camp in shambles after the latest turn of events. He hadn't seen, but he had heard how everything had been stripped. Disposed of. The box near Dutch's tent empty, vacant. The money long gone in attempt to gather what meager supplies could be found.

Rhodes was a mistake. Should have never tangled with those families; the generations of hate there was far too potent to be tamed or resolved. They were fools for even trying; but Dutch and Hosea had been lured by the prospect of gold. Arthur had been as well, if he was being honest. As though a bit of gold was enough to solve all their problems. Regretfully, no amount of gold was worth the trouble they went through. Those families were something else; inbred bastards, the lot of them. The only decent folk around were those two crazy kids, carrying on some secret affair that could very well get them lynched by the very folks that should care about them.

Arthur stilled at the thought, his brow furrowing. Wondering just then. Wondering if perhaps it was that easy. He turned, glancing over his shoulder, eye tracing the path that led to the house. The shift in his demeanor didn't go unnoticed, John's voice curious as the man prodded.

“What? You hear something?”

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, waving off the man's attempt to help. “You go on, get this place cleaned up, get the folks over here. There's something I ought to check on.”

“You gone crazy?” John argued, “Dutch ain't gonna like this, Arthur. I mean, what the _hell_ am I supposed to tell him when he finds out you've gone off on your own?”

“You tell him that you ain't go no idea where I've gone off to,” Arthur replied nonchalantly as he mounted.

“I _don't_ know where you're getting off to.”

“Good,” he nodded in turn, “then you don't gotta lie. Cause we both know you ain't capable of bluffing.”

“Arthur-”

“Don't fret so much,” he rolled his eyes, nudging Hera into a trot. “I'll be back soon.”

He didn't wait for an answer. Didn't give the man a chance to argue further. He hadn't told anyone where he was going, or to what he was getting up to, not for years. Not since he was a kid.

And he wasn't about to start now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story has gone on a little longer than planned, but we're almost done. If you're still reading let me know! 
> 
> I hope I got the good brotherly talk done just right between these two fools. Their relationship is funky, but they are brothers, whether they like it or not. 
> 
> See everyone soon, and take care!


	14. Chapter 14

Shady Belle, when he truly thought about it, wasn’t that bad of a place. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, what with the murky air and the gators that resided on the fringes of the land, but it was a far cry better than inside of a jail cell. Or at the end of a noose. So he wouldn’t complain. Even if the place was severely lacking.

The house itself was in disarray, barely held together by the seams. Rotten wood and torn shutters adorned the outside, and on the inside, the mess was even worse. Broken furniture littered every room, a few pieces fairing better than the rest, but most of it would be carted outside and used to fuel the fire.

That wasn’t even the worst of things. No...that would be the blood. Strewn across several rooms, some of it old, the rest, all too recent, still staining the floor. A gruesome sight to behold. At least the bodies had been cleared out; what a small bit of fortune that was. Because he knew Arthur and Lenny had a run in with these folk weeks ago. Then John had admitted that there were some complications upon their return, though he was vague about the whole ordeal, carefully skirting around the details. Rather he insisted that things were handled. Right before he hesitantly announced Arthur had taken off.

On his own.

It wasn’t a surprise, truthfully. The man had been itching to head out unsupervised for the past few days now, badgering them relentlessly. What better time to take off than the moment he was free of Dutch’s vigilant gaze? Truthfully, a part of Hosea had been surprised it had taken this long to happen. Yet Dutch seemed utterly aghast by the news. It didn’t take long for that shock to wear down into thin anger, the man bristling as he interrogated John about every nuance of their conversation.

“He didn’t say,” John ground out for what he presumed was the dozenth time. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, the youth leaning against the wall. “Just said he was gonna check on sumthin’ and that he’d be back. How many times you gonna make me say it? Want me to write it down or something? Shit...”

“And you didn’t _once_ think about stopping him?”

Dutch’s voice was tight, almost a growl. Hosea stood on the opposite end of the room, watching the ordeal. He had tried to step in once already, but Dutch was having none of it. He seemed fit to be tied, in fact. Treating this decision as though it were an act of betrayal. As though Arthur had done this as a personal insult to his authority.

“You try stoppin him when he get’s like that, Dutch,” John muttered dryly. “Ain’t like Arthur got any problems hauling off and messin’ me up. He’s done it before, he’d do it again. I ain’t got a death wish.”

That much was true. As much those boys cared for one another they could fight something awful. Had fought frequently in all those years growing up together. More than once John had come back bloody and bruised, followed in by Arthur who was ever insistent that John had been the one to start things, and he had only finished them. Even as he was now, Hosea held no doubts the man could still throw a solid punch. The thought amusing him as John left the room, the interrogation seemingly over.

“I told you, Hosea,” Dutch spat out once they were alone, the man collapsing on the end of the bed. “That fool is going to run himself into the ground.”

Hosea shook his head, watching him. It was time _they_ had a bit of talk, he realized. He cleared his voice, trying to muster as much authority as he could. The words slow, but chosen well. 

“Listen to me, now. I want him to take it slow as much as you do, but-you can’t keep him here, Dutch.”

“The hell I can’t,” he snarled, his head resting in one hand. The other pushed back stray locks of hair that were falling in his eyes. “I’ll shackle him to the goddamn hitching post if need be.”

Hosea sat down near him, muffling a laugh. The weariness was evident in both of them. The past few days had been one long turmoil, from everything Arthur had endured, to loss of Sean, to Jack’s disappearance, and in everything, the upheaval that led them all here. To him, it seemed like they weren’t able to catch their breaths. Still trying to process their thoughts. And Dutch...well, the man’s mind was going far too many directions, all at once.

“He’s always been restless,” Hosea told him softly. “You try and keep him here, he’s just gonna resent you for it.”

“This is not open for debate, Hosea,” the man growled in return. “This is for his own good. And you best believe that I will do whatever I have to, to keep him from-”

The words faded, seemingly stuck in his throat. Dutch refused to meet his gaze, eyes staring off in the distance instead. Hosea drew in a breath, his own thoughts jumbled, sorting them before he reached out, a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Its not up to you. He ain’t… He ain’t doing well. We both know that, he knows it, and… well, you can go and force him to stay here, tie him down and keep him under constant watch, if that’s what you want, but Dutch...you’d be forcing him to give up everything he loves, and that ain’t living. Hell, that’s barely surviving.”

“Surviving is what we do best, Hosea,” the man argued tiredly.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, “but this isn’t like the law, or Pinkertons- this isn’t something he can outrun.”

It was a dour thought. Unsettling and resting anxiously within him. But the truth of the matter _could_ not be denied. Arthur’s health had taken a drastic decline the past weeks, and he knew the prognosis, knew there was no coming back from this, despite how much he wanted it to be otherwise. He had come to accept that. Now it was Dutch’s turn to realize that. The faint knowledge showing on the man’s face as he sighed, the weariness in his drawn voice. 

“What do you suppose I should do, then?”

Dutch didn’t even look his way. Choose instead to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn there was a faint glistening of tears embedded in the man’s eyes.

“Let him live. That’s what I’m saying. Things...they’re just gonna get worse and I reckon soon enough he won’t be well enough to do much, if… if anything. He’ll be stuck here by his own choice, and when that happens...guess we’ll figure it out when we get to that point.”

“It isn’t right,” Dutch snapped, his voice almost a yell. It dropped then, thin and wispy, the next words almost unheard. “He’s young...it’s not...”

“Sean was young, too,” Hosea reminded him. “So was Jenny. And… and Annabelle.”

And countless others they had lost. All of them, bodies long gone cold buried underground. Nothing but memories, dreams that came to them in the middle of the night. None of them were long for this world, not with the life they led. The three of them had been together for more than twenty years, had made it this far. Seemed like they had been doing something right. Seemed almost cruel that fate had deemed otherwise.

“So we just give up, then?” Dutch looked at him, skeptically. That hint of anger still brooding there, beneath the surface.

“Give up? Now that doesn’t very well sound like you, does it?” Hosea chastised him. Arthur might be a stubborn bastard, but Hosea reckoned Dutch was the worse of the two. Surrender was a word the man was unfamiliar with. Giving up was deemed an irredeemable sin. Hosea could see the thoughts brewing in the man’s mind, knew he was working on something. Always thinking, that man was. It drew a smile from him, his fingers squeezing the man’s shoulder gently.

“We’ll figure things out. One step at a time. And right now, we got work to do. Arthur isn’t the only one who needs our help.”

Jack was still unaccounted for. In their journey to here, from Clemens, they had talked. Loosely. Developed a plan to scour the city. They had planned to take a couple of the boys, and start on the fringes of the city, working their way in. They would check every building, turn over every stone, pry into every cellar if need be.

They were going to find that boy.

The reminder was enough to distract Dutch. The man sitting up straighter, a new resolve on his face. Looking more like himself now than he had these past few hours. His hands were braced on his knees as he nodded, resolute.

“Right as always, Hosea. Why don’t I gather a few of the boys; we’ll all head on out and see what we can find.”

And that was that. His mind made up, the man departing the room, Hosea close on his heels. Downstairs and out through the door. The camp, only partially set up, the last of the wagons having just arrived. Pearson was busy, hurrying the stew along, the women slowly unpacking under Grimshaw’s stern direction. The woman fussing, trying to hurry them along, the stress easy to hear in her voice. It almost felt like normal.

Almost.

If there wasn't a dark, figurative, cloud brewing above their heads, Dutch's voice splitting through the air like thunder, rousing several of the occupants. Bill and John mounting up with them, ready to ride out, the plan rehashed and agreed upon. Under him, Silver's flank quivered, a bundle of nerves ready to move at the lightest pressure. Until Javier's voice split the air, his words sending a wave of relief washing through him. Because he had been worried too.

“ _Arthur's coming in!”_

That relief was short lived. Knew that storm was ready to break loose if there was any indication in Dutch's eyes. A scowl marring his features as they watched the man ride in, his horse slowing as he drew near them. Dutch's words were quiet, the order complacent as he told the others to head out, that they would catch up with them in the city. Bill and John wasted no time in following through, though Hosea did not miss the glance shared between him and Arthur on the way by. 

And Arthur...

He looked worn. His face tight and brow furrowed, the dark circles ringing his eyes. That was more than his illness talking, Hosea knowing that the man hadn't slept for a few nights now, not with all chaos that had recently been unleashed. But that weariness seemed to dissipate as he drew new, his features hardening as he curbed his horse. Dutch wasted no time in badgering him, the man's words short and crisp.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?”

“Well I ain't been out burning houses down, that's for damn sure,” Arthur spat right back, “what the hell was you thinking?”

“We had no choice.”

“Is that so?” Arthur raised an eyebrow, one hand idly stroking his steed's flank, the horse shuffling beneath him. “And what the hell would you have done had Jack still been there?”

“We checked the place, Arthur,” Hosea reassured him, the words coming out before Dutch had it in mind to respond. “We would never have put him in any danger, you know that.”

“You damn fools were gone for only a couple of hours. Takes longer than that to search that entire place.”

“We did what needed to be done,” Dutch snapped, anger edging his words. “And I will do whatever it takes to get that boy back, believe me when I say that, Arthur.”

“You burning that place to the ground is what probably brought the Pinkertons sniffing this way,” he argued. It was a good point, Hosea had to admit. They hadn't really had a chance to dwell on how the agents had traced them that way, but the news of the fire would have spread, and spread fast. 

“Jack is our main concern,” Dutch didn't seem bothered by the accusation, “and we are going to find him.”

“The boy's in the city,” Hosea agreed, hoping that if kept the conversation moving, he could prevent full fledged fight that was brewing. “Dutch and I-we're about to head on out, see if we can find him.”

The distraction seemed to work. Arthur's dark glare softening, his attention leaving Dutch, turning towards him instead, perplexion coating his features just then.

“So, you plan on what? Working your way through the city, asking folk if they've just happened to see a little boy wandering about? Hope you get lucky?”

“I've got a plan,” Dutch answered in his stead, that sourness still there. Hosea let out a sigh, pushing the brim of his hat up. 

“Alright, Arthur, what'd you find?” 

Dutch might have been too wrapped up in his ways to notice, but Hosea was ever vigilant. He had spent one too many times keeping after both Arthur and John while growing up that he knew when they were up to something. And Hosea could swear he saw Arthur smirk in response, as though he was enjoying himself. Perhaps he was; it wasn't often that the man was onto something, but when he was he had no qualms in playing it up. He straightened in his saddle, waving one hand nonchalantly as though it was no concern.

“Well, when you fools was pitting those two families against one another, I was actually talking with a few of them; a couple of young kids; crazy love-struck idiots the pair of them. But at least they have more sense than the rest of their folks combined.”

He had heard about that; briefly. Arthur muttering something about the two lovers and their antics, sneaking off behind their families backs. It had come up once, during a riveting game of dominoes; Hosea had been convinced Arthur was merely making the whole thing up in attempt to distract him. Truthfully, Hosea thought much about it. Not till now. 

Dutch, however, seemed less impressed, urging Arthur to actually get to the point he was trying to make. His patience was run thin, it seemed. Arthur fought of a cough, clearing his throat as he continued. 

“Well, I got thinking, and figured that if the Braithwaite boys _had_ taken Jack, then this weren't the first time they've done something of the sort. You don't just run in and steal a kid without knowing what you're doing, so it got me thinking that someone ought to know something. I took a trip down there and had myself a bit of a chat with the young lady, Penelope. Turns out they've pulled these stunts before, seems like kids go missing often enough. Good money there, sending them to the city, or so she says.”

“We already know he's in the city,” Dutch pointed out.

“She know where?” 

Hosea watched him nod, the levity in his voice gone. Words raspy now as he fought off a few more coughs. 

“Says they send them to a man by the name of Angelo Bronte. Supposed to be some big businessman. Real rich, lives in a fancy house on the outskirts of the city. In tight, with the mayor, and not in a good way if you catch my meaning. But I reckon if we're going to find anything, it's going to be there.”

“Sounds promising,” Dutch agreed. The look in Dutch's eye, the fascination that sparked there, worried Hosea. Especially at Arthur's next words.

“Supposed to be dangerous, too.” 

“Good to know,” the man nodded to him, that enthrallment disappearing. Or perhaps just masked, for now. “We'll be sure to check it out.”

“We heading out then?”

“Yes, _we_ are,” the man clarified, continuing on as Arthur's face fell into a frown. “You've done plenty, and you've done it well, but right now I need you here.”

“Dutch, I-”

“He's right, Arthur,” Hosea agreed quietly, nudging Silver closer to his side. “You haven't slowed since-” he trailed off, words lost to him. He couldn't even remember the last time the man had slept, his mind slowly filtering through all that had happened. After a moment he waved a hand dismissively, knowing it was of no importance.

“Why don't we let the others go on up ahead; the two of us stay behind. Help keep an eye on things here.”

He wanted to argue. Did he ever; Hosea could tell by the look on his face. That deep frown crossing his features, emphasizing his weariness. His mouth opened as though he was going to, but he seemed short on words. Even more so as Dutch sped off, leaving the two behind. Hosea could feel the guilt blooming, growing heavy in his gut. Hadn't he just told Dutch to let Arthur be? And now?

Now this was different. He tried to reason with himself, even as he dismounted. Arthur still rested atop of Hera, head turned in the direction Dutch had gone, a soft pang of longing creeping over his features. That sullen look fleeing as Hosea rested a hand on his thigh, catching his attention.

“Come on down, Arthur. I know you're tired. Let's get you fed and seen too.”

“I ain't a kid anymore,” the man grumbled, even as he dismounted. He didn't fight the hold on his arm to steady him though, his breaths heavy. 

“Not saying you are,” Hosea chuckled softly, the pair of them making their way up to the house. “Just...humor an old fella like me; make me feel important, why don't you? Just this once.”

“Oh come on, Hosea,” the man laughed in-between a few broken coughs, “we all know that if it weren't for you, this whole place would fall apart.”

“Don't let Susan hear you say that,” he warned, “she's under the impression it's all her.”

That prompted yet another chuckle, the earlier despondency fading away as they ventured up the stairs. Their talk more amicable, trading jests and for once feeling normal. Something that hadn't been experienced for a while, he was certain. And there was a grin on the man's face, even as he eased himself down on the bed with a heavy breath, cheeks flushed from the exertion of the climb. Did he ever look tired. 

But he took to eating quite well. The sight easing Hosea's worries as he sat down on the bed near him. Their conversation drifting, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the spoon clunking alongside the bowl, heavy breaths and sporadic coughs in between each bite. There was solace to be found within that silence though, and Hosea relished in it. Wondered dimly to how many more times like this they had left. The words coming out before he could even stop them.

“Once we get Jack home safe, I reckon I'll speak with Dutch, see about packing up, head back west. Get you back out where the air's drier.”

Arthur stilled at that, bowl and spoon still held firm in his hands. It took a moment for him to look his way, a soft expression of remorse on his face. 

“You know that ain't gonna happen. We made too much noise back that way; ain't got too many options right now 'Sea, and this place...it ain't too bad.”

“This humidity's not doing any favors for my old lungs,” Hosea scoffed, shaking his head, “Can't imagine how you're holding up as it is.”

“I'm fine,” he drawled, glancing back down at the stew. It hurt, not only to hear him say that, but to see him as well. A small bit of anger welling inside of him.

“Cut the crap, Arthur. You're sick, you don't have to pretend everything's alright.”

“Sure,” he agreed, hardly bothered by his outburst, “I'll just sit here and feel sorry for myself, then?”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

“Sides, Dutch has it in his mind that we're crossing the ocean. Headed out to Tahiti or somethin. Soon as we can get the money.”

“Out of all his hare-brained ideas,” Hosea shook his head, slouching forward. Dutch was, at the best of times, like a hound, his plans like critters, driven to chase them down until caught. And once he held that idea in his maw, he was just as quick to let it go, possessed by the need to chase after the next thought that happened by. Unstoppable at best, uncontrollable at the worst. 

“Ain't the worst one he's had,” Arthur scoffed, “you remember that time he wanted us to go in on that circus act? That fool actually went out and stole costumes for us to dress into, said we was gonna be roadside attractions.”

He winced, the memory bringing a flush to his cheeks, “Oh I remember. Started convincing me to pose as a bearded lady; he tried stuffing grapefruits down my front and even called me an old girl.”

“And you dug those fruits back up and chucked them at his head, and the next thing I know you've gone down to the stream and shaved off your beard,” Arthur laughed, the grin splitting his face. “I ain't ever seen you with one since.”

That he hadn't. Dutch had been put out by his refusal to join in on that ludicrous idea, ever insistent that it was easy money. Had, for  _months_ after pestered him about the lost revenue. Latched onto him at the slightest hint of scruff that started to show, a feeble attempt to try and change his mind. So Hosea had done well to keep his appearance clean, and after a while, it had just become a habit. 

“So he's had worse ideas,” Hosea agreed with a laugh of his own. “But we got him to reconsider then...I think we can do it again here.”

There was still a smile that graced his face, but it fell into something wistful as he answered. “I don't know, Hosea. It's...heading out that way, it ain't safe. Got the law on us something awful, and we know Cornwall's back in the area. And how exactly are we supposed to get everyone out that way without drawing attention? I'm not-I don't want anyone getting hurt on my behalf. We go out that way...well, we're just walking into a storm.”

He didn't have an answer for that. It was the same thing Dutch had argued. The reason why they were pushing south, each move taking them further from where they should be. The west was wild and untamed, open and free, and precisely where they needed to go. He felt it, in his bones. The certainty there. But he couldn't ignore the wisdom thrust out in front of him, plain as day. 

Instead of answering, he reached over and took the bowl from Arthur's hands. He gave the man a pat on the back, urging him to rest. And for once there wasn't a complaint he got in return. Arthur agreeing instead, a testament to just how tired he was. It seemed as though the man had aged a span of years in just a few days. Hosea's chest tightened at the thought. 

They were running out of time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this folks, had a few distractions in rl come at me. But I hope this was worth the wait :)
> 
> Enjoy and see you all soon!


	15. Chapter 15

He slept hard, unaware of everything that unfolded around him. His dreams fleeting for a change; a blessing seeing as his mind had kept him so busy these past few days, refusing to let him settle. Arthur honestly didn’t remember anything after Hosea had left him, but he knew that someone must have come in. Knew it because someone had covered him up with a blanket, and partially undressed him in attempt to make him comfortable. It was unnerving; for anyone to catch him that unaware he must have been more tired than he first thought.

That realization ever more pressing as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. The darkness surrounding him, signaling night had come. Seemed as though he had slept the day away...

For a moment he simply lay there, eyes still closed and breaths even as he listened to the muted buzz from beyond the walls. Unwilling to move, the heaviness weighing his limbs down. Trapping him in place. Though he could hear it now, in the distance; the distinctive sounds of glass clinking, the strumming of a guitar, notes belted out loud and off key, all of which was followed by rancorous laughter. They were celebrating.

There could only be one reason for such festivities after all that had taken place. He found himself smiling, the longing building inside of his chest the more he listened. He wanted to be with them. That urge finally winning out. Worn, and feeling far too old, Arthur pushed himself upright, pausing at the sudden movement.

Seated on the edge of the bed, his head hanging heavily in his hands, he found himself reeling. Trying to dispel the growing headache and maintain some sort of composure. Christ, with how long he had slept one would assume he should be well rested. He felt anything but. The yawn forcing its way free as though to scold him for even thinking about rousing. But he couldn’t sleep. Not anymore. The desire pulling at him was far too strong to ignore.

If Jack _was_ back, then he wanted to see for himself. So he forced himself up. Forced himself to move.

It took some fumbling; he groped around in the darkness, cursing as he stubbed his toes on unfamiliar furnishings. Eventually though he managed to find his boots. His jacket pulled on shortly after, hugged tight against him. He felt cold despite the mugginess that hung in the air. Maybe it was the humidity that made things worse. Certainly didn’t help his lungs any, the coughs breaking free as he sat back on the bed, giving himself a moment to catch his breath.

Arthur pushed back the locks that fell into his eyes. Briefly he considered giving into Dutch’s constant badgering and get the damn thing cut already. He’d been too busy running from the law, trying to slip free from trouble and get out of one shitty mess after another to really worry about it. Even his beard had grown, the hair course under his fingers. He needed a cut and a shave.

Maybe he’d consider it later. When he wasn’t feeling so poor.

He wondered if such a thing would ever happen, the thought tight in his chest. He didn’t much like it, and Arthur pushed himself to his feet before had too long to dwell on the matter. A lantern lit the hallway, making it easy traipse down the stairs without breaking his damn neck. Still it was relief to be at the bottom, and Arthur wasted no time in pushing his way out into the open air. He was greeted by the warm glow of the fires, the gang clustered in groups, lost in songs and drinks. Seemed like the festivities were still in full swing.

There were a few that welcomed him, the rest far too gone in their joviality to pay him much heed. A warm nod from Hosea, and Dutch, who was ever pleased to see him up. There was mirth in his eyes, a glimpse of proud accomplishment as the man pressed a drink into his waiting hand. Arthur took a drink, the burn in his throat pleasant, though the liquor sat heavily in his stomach.

“Everything go alright?”

“Everything went just fine,” Dutch was grinning, finishing off his own bottle. He followed it with a motion of his hand, Arthur’s gaze drifting over to where Abigail and John sat. Jack was sandwiched between them, locked in conversation and looking content despite everything he must have gone through. He seemed alright, the knowledge sitting well with him. Before he turned away, he caught John’s gaze, the two exchanging a quick glance before Dutch had his attention once more.

“This Bronte, I quite like him. He’s a respectable man, Arthur.”

“Respectable?” that surprised him. Cocking an eyebrow as he took another sip. “Ain’t how he was described to me.”

In truth, Penelope had very little in the way of favorable things to say about the man. Her expression crude and teeth clenched as she besmirched the man. Avaricious and powerful, two combinations that made him dangerous. Arthur shared these concerns and more, divulging in what he had learned. To his surprise, Dutch sneered.

“And you think those yokels would know anything? Of course those simpletons would be frightened of such a cultivated man like Angelo Bronte. Their tiny minds could never comprehend exactly who and what he is.”

“Oh, and you think you can?” Arthur wondered, fighting off a cough. Damn drink didn’t seem to be doing him any favors. Or perhaps that was the smoke from the fire. He was tempted to step away, but he relished in the warmth cast by the flames. That and Dutch didn’t seem to be done with him quite yet, the man stepping closer to him.

“I am not ignorant, Arthur,” he chided, a scowl on his face, “I haven’t survived these past two decades on luck alone. I _do_ know how to keep my wits about me.”

“I ain’t saying that Dutch,” he shook his head at the accusation. Too often the man would take any question as festering doubt. Too eager to launch into a speech of loyalty as though Arthur hadn’t followed him blindly for all these years. How Hosea ever managed to talk sense in him was a mystery; one he wanted to solve. Cause more than anything, the mere mention of Bronte sat wrong with him, and he hadn’t even met the man. Only heard of him. It was enough to send a chill down his spine.

“I’m just worried, is all,” he explained quietly. “I mean-look, we got Jack back, and you’re the one who’s always saying we need to lay low; keep our heads down. Running with this-pompous son of a fool ain’t the best thing, is it?”

“We need money,” the argument came. It was always about money, and as much as Arthur hated it, he knew that Dutch was right. Though a part of him felt as there were easier ways to obtain said funds. Ways that didn’t involve entangling them with the likes of that man. Arthur pressed him further, waving a hand.

“You said it yourself; we stay here a few days, get Jack, then disappear. So why ain’t we doing that?”

“And where would you have us go?” Dutch wondered, the discontent in his voice. He was angry; always was whenever someone didn’t agree with him straight away. Dutch, if anything, did not like to be questioned. The man elaborated, “Where do we take twenty people, most especially with no funds? We got the law sniffing about all over the place-”

“Yeah, we got the law on us,” Arthur cut him off, angry in his own right, “cause we a bunch a damn fools who don’t know when to let well enough alone. We keep stirring up trouble like you always told us not to. And look at us now, stuck neck deep in this swampy hellhole.”

“That ain’t my fault,” Dutch growled. “ _Things_ happen.”

“Sure,” he agreed quietly, his voice dropped, submitting. Holding his own against Dutch was a feat in itself. Years ago, when he was younger, when they were _both_ younger, it had been easier. That was back before the gang, back before all this mess. The things they argued about then were trivial compared to here and now. 

Arthur still held onto the faint hope that they could go back to how things once were, but that was becoming more a dream than reality with each passing day, the understanding sinking deep like a rock fallen into water. 

“We shouldn’t be going out and causing more trouble, is all I’m saying. We got enough worries as it is.”

“Arthur,” the man let out a sigh, his voice dropping as he drew even closer; a breadth between them. “Son-listen to me. I know-I _know_ that things are difficult at the moment, but I am asking you to trust me. I have plans, Arthur. Just have a little faith, is all I'm asking. I need you _with_ me; not against me.”

The request, more of a plead, hung heavy in the air. The man’s gaze locked with him, the expression difficult to read. Perhaps a cross between indignation and hope. And Dutch-well Dutch was many things; the man like a father to him, plucking him off the street all those many years. He had all but saved his life, taught him everything he knew. The man a charmer, a talker, possessing a gift with words that went unmatched. Arthur found it difficult to turn away. Loyalty, above everything else, was important. The ill feeling in his gut still there even as he nodded. The words coming before he could even think them through.

“Course, Dutch. I mean, you know I always got your back.”

“Thank you, son,” he seemed pleased the smile genuine. “Now Bronte and I, we understand one another, and he gave me a few tips; places I’m going to look into. One of them sounds promising, like an easy take. Hell, even you could handle it, if you’re up for it.”

“If they so easy, then why hasn’t he gone after them?”

“And have the man rob his own city?” Dutch laughed, actually laughed at the question. As though it was weighed down by audacity of even being asked.

“Didn’t realize it was his city,” he mumbled, taking another sip. It tickled his throat, the coughs yearning to break free. It was all he could do to swallow them down. Across from him the man was grinning, a hand resting on his back.

“He _runs_ the city, my boy. Two different things.”

Two different things entirely. That ill omen creeping back in as Dutch left him there. The night, ever more pressing. True, he hadn’t met Bronte, hadn’t seen the man for himself, but Penelope had told him more than enough. He might only just have met her, but Arthur trusted her intuition. After all, she had been right about Jack. Seemed like she had been right about a lot of things, most certainly her family and their sordid history.

He started, the hand on his arm jolting him from his thoughts. Abigail's face pinched in concern, that worry fading as he gave her a reassure smile. They had always been friends, had held close relations at time, had even considered being more. That was before she got sweet on John, before that fool had stolen her heart. Guess it was for the best, the thought almost amusing as he gave her a nod.

  
“Abigail. Sure am glad to see your boy back, safe and sound.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. “John tells me that I have you to thank for it.”

“Aw, it ain’t nothing really,” he shrugged off the compliment. It wasn’t as though he had done it for praise. Keeping that boy safe; well, that was what he did. What he would continue to do for as long as he could. These people, this odd family of his; they were all he had.

“Still means a lot to me-to us,” she nodded over her shoulder back to where John sat with Jack still. The two flipping through a book now, their attention captivated by whatever was on those pages. The boy sure did love his books. A trait that was not possessed by his father, it seemed.

“He uh-he also told me-about you,” her hesitant voice drew him back out of his thoughts. She hadn’t said it directly, but the implication was there. The resignation clear on her face. It sent a spike of fury through him, a growl as he turned back to look at John. It was a good thing the man was distracted; even better that they was surrounded by everyone. Arthur was fit to set him straight.

“Of course he did,” he settled for words instead. The god damn fool had run his mouth. Of course he would have; John was never one for keep his trap shut. He didn’t think the man had the ability to do so even if he wanted to. The thought curling in his stomach, wondering then to who else he might have told.

“He only told me,” Abigail reassured him. She must have seen the look on her face. She had always been intuitive. A good thief, as well as a smart lady. It wasn’t as though he didn’t trust her; rather it was John he didn’t trust. He lied just as easily, a trait well learned from his youth. Always willing to blame Arthur for shit that was started when it was him all along. Arthur grunted, his hands on his hips as he shook his head.

“For now, perhaps.”

How long, he wondered, until everyone knew? By the state of everyone, happily drunk and singing, some dancing in the firelight, it felt as though his secret was safe. He turned back as her fingers squeezed, gentle into his flesh. Noticing just then her eyes were sad.

“He told me-what you said,” she whispered, her voice barely heard. “And I think-I...he wants me to pack some things. Arthur I-”

She didn’t finish, simply drew him into a hug. The embrace returned, gentle in his hold, realizing just then that she was saying goodbye. The sudden thought hitting him, that they would perhaps not see each other again, ever present in his mind. A bittersweet feeling; cause despite all the shit he gave Marston, and what the man gave in return, he still cared.

“Don’t you go telling anyone now,” he muttered quietly in her ear. Dutch would not stand for it. John had already tried his patience once. This would be his undoing. There would be no coming back from this. But he knew, deep in his heart, it was a good move. “You have that foolish man of yours write; I know that he knows how.”

The last part said in earnest. Arthur wasn’t sure why; he doubted he would be around to even read any letters that came in. Maybe the prospect of a letter would give him hope. A small sliver of light in his dark and dreary future. He felt her laugh in his hold. Her breath warm against his neck. Wishing, in vain, that this moment could stretch forever.

“You take care of yourself,” she scolded him gently. “Don’t go causing any trouble.”

“You know me,” he shook his head as she pulled away. The comment garnering a laugh.

“That I do, Arthur Morgan,” she gave his hand a squeeze. Then retreated as quickly as she had come. Sitting back down next to John, the couple pretending as though nothing had happened. Arthur took the moment to look around, wondering if anyone had seen. If anyone had noticed. But everyone was too far gone to pay much heed; far too busy in their own endeavors of getting drunk.

There was something warm, yet heavy, that grew in his chest. A small feeling of accomplishment he couldn’t describe. It hadn’t been much, but at least it was something. At least someone was going to make it out of this shit show. Not him...that was never the fate for him, he knew, Arthur kicked a stray rock as he moved, picking his way closer to the fire. Found an empty spot next to Javier, the man delving into yet another song as he sat. To Arthur, it felt like the night stretched on forever, and in the early morning he drifted, sleep claiming him once more.

One among many.

The scattered individuals waking up bit by bit, slogging around and grabbing at tins in hopes it was coffee that would chase away the demons trapped inside of them. Arthur still sat, bundled up in the front of the fire, having woken only a bit ago. The irate voices pulling him from his uneasy slumber.

It hadn’t taken long for them to notice. Seemed that the damn fool had taken off with a wagon during the night. How he’d manage that without anyone noticing was a miracle. The sentries must have been plastered as well. And Dutch, as expected, was fit to be tied. His hollers raging through the early morning air, sending everyone stumbling, wincing at his tone. Just barely, he could hear Hosea attempting, in vain, to calm the man.

Arthur wondered dully if he should step in and help. But he had little desire to move, only wrapping his coat around him tighter in effort to stave off the chill. Never felt like he could warm up anymore. It had settled deep in his bones, affecting only him. The others were wearing loose clothes, sweating in the humid air as they went about business. Heads down, doing their best to avoid Dutch’s wrath lest they end up as the outlet of his latest outburst. For now though, he seemed content to yell at Hosea.

And he was still yelling when the gunfire erupted around them. Drowning out whatever words he was going to say next. The argument suddenly forgotten.

Because the O’Driscolls had found their camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes....
> 
> The O'Driscolls found their camp. They can never seem to get a break, can they? One thing, after another. At least John and co made it to safety :)
> 
> It's crazy though! I swear when I started this story is was going to be around 4 or 5 chapters. Look at it now!
> 
> We're close to the end folks, so hang tight. Drop a comment or two, penny for your thoughts, let me know your thoughts on how this is going to end! I'll give cookies to anyone who's right :)
> 
> See you soon!


	16. Chapter 16

**_6 months later_ **

The paper was worn; edges frayed and the creases deep, a water stain almost right in the center blurring some of the words. Seemed like it had exchanged a few hands before arriving here. Not that it was a surprise, considering the many miles it must have traveled. His eyes traced over the words, one fist pressed against his lips as he stifled a cough. Hoping there wouldn’t be another fit to follow.

The drier air helped. The mustiness of the swamp little more than a memory now. And the further west they traveled, the easier it was for him to breathe it seemed. For Hosea too. Arthur had noted how the man seemed a little more lively as of late.

He wasn’t upset that they had come this way. Perhaps the only thing that bothered him was how it all had unfolded. Because it hadn’t been by choice that they had left. John’s disappearance had been unsettling, the ambush even more so. Worse yet was the discovery of Kieran; the poor fool hadn’t stood a chance.

Later, after they had dragged the bodies away, Mary-Beth had confided in him that she had noticed Kieran's disappearance sometime that previous evening. Everyone else had been too drunk to even notice. Seemed like he had gone fishing; he must have been snatched right quick, given the turn around.

His death hurt in a similar way to Sean’s. Unexpected, and unnecessary. Not only that, but Kieran had saved his life once. They weren’t friends, by any means, but Arthur had reckoned he was alright, as far as an O’Driscoll went. He certainly hadn’t deserved this...any of this. Arthur could remember the kid mentioning more than once that he was afraid to wander far, always wary of being discovered. Had told him once that Colm would happily have his head given the chance.

The man had done that, and more.

The remains of his body buried after the ambush was dealt with. It cast them all into a somber mood, and it hadn’t taken long for them to notice. The disappearance of others. Individuals up and leaving, their belongings vanished come the next day. Dutch’s frustration and anger growing with each one. Until on the third day, it had been too hard to deny that something had fundamentally broke among them all. The validity of the ability to keep them all safe hanging heavily in the air. Questions asked. Answers that no one wanted to hear.

John and his family had been first to leave, of course. The younger man heeding his words and whisking his family out of there. It was a small fortune that Jack hadn’t been caught in that damn mess, but Arthur would be the first to admit that he missed the extra gun. Still, it left hope, gave others a reason to try. To think ahead, to think for themselves.

Mary-Beth and Tilly slipped out a few days later.

Quiet mutterings that they were headed into the city to find their own fortune before they departed. Arthur was surprised to find that Uncle had vanished as well by that same afternoon, his intentions unknown. Strauss, at least, had been more vocal about his departure. The man eager and ready to pick and pluck the streets of Saint Denis to find more fools ready to be swindled into his schemes.

Arthur wondered how long he would last there without a hefty hand to extract said loans. The fool…

It should have been no surprise to see Pearson gone that next day. Grimshaw finding his wagon and pot empty; hungry bellies rumbling as they scrambled for some sort of meal. The clutch of them, growing smaller and smaller.

Swanson’s departure had been a surprise. He hardly seemed to be the same drunken fool that Arthur had pulled off the railway all those months ago. Claimed he had gone sober, had gone straight. Apparently the man had been talking to a monk by the name of Brother Dorkins there in the city. The man had welcomed him into his hold. An offer Swanson was taking, the goodbye heartfelt. Perhaps it was just a ruse, perhaps it was genuine. Arthur doubted he would ever find out.

The biggest blowout came between Dutch and Molly. The pair of fools had been at each other’s throats for a time now. The fights growing more and more volatile. Molly wanting more, Dutch unable to give her any of his time. Tired of her, it seemed. Dutch’s vehement threat of casting her out becoming a reality when she packed her stuff and traipsed out of there. Adamant that she would do far better out on her own than she had ever been with him. The man all but growling a ‘good riddance’ and sighing in bitter relief as the quietness of the evening settled over them.

Of course it hadn’t taken long for him to launch into another speech about loyalty. One that was barely heeded, a simple clutch of them still together. It felt, to Arthur, almost like old times. Simpler times. Not longer where they a bustling group with many mouths to feed, but a smaller, tighter knit group, relying on one another.

And they knew that had to leave.

Shady Belle was no longer safe. Colm knew where they were, and given time would return, and no doubt finish off their small group. And the threat of the Pinkertons was ever heavy in the air. Time was of the essence. The job Dutch had eyed so tediously in the city all but forgotten. New worries on the man's mind.

Dutch focused instead on holding together the remains of their broken family, determined to turn all of this around. Find a new place, the man had said, start over. They didn’t _need_ the others. The lot of them was just fine. And so he had scattered the groups in attempt to find a new home.

Charles and Lenny had come back.

Bill and Javier had not.

Efforts to find a new home forgotten as their focus turned towards attempting to find _them._ They had spent several days, scouring the swamps, running the length of the coast, searching for the pair, before a letter arrived in the city addressed to their alias. It was a quick jotted note, announcing their decision. Seemed Javier was heading back to his homeland, and Bill figured on tagging along.

That, he suspected, had been the end of things.

Despite Dutch’s insistence, it was clear they couldn’t go on. That all of this was over. A pitiful collection of stragglers, all too loyal or too drunk to wander off. Karen spent most of her time sleeping, and when she was not sleeping, she was drinking. Cursed bitter remarks splitting the air and she and Grimshaw came to a head.

Arthur hadn’t been there when the woman chased her off.

He had gone out with Charles and Sadie, heading up north in one last hope of finding a new spot. Dutch was still holding onto the hope then that they could turn things around. Had foolishly believed that it wasn’t too late. That they were better off alone.

If only they had _more_ time. _More_ money. _More_ faith.

“ _Faith ain’t gonna save us, Arthur.”_

Sadie had told him that on the ride back after another failed endeavor. Heading up north had taken them into Murfree country. A bad place to be. Those folk hardly passed as human, and ghoulish screams could be heard splitting the night as they rode through. It was enough to raise the hair on his neck, the desire to tangle with them non-existent. It hadn’t taken much convincing for the three of them to turn around and head back to camp with the sullen news. And with Hosea by their side, they had managed to convince Dutch.

The man looked brokenhearted. That same morose expression that had adorned his face when he had learned of Annabelle's passing marring his features. He didn’t want to admit defeat. Never did. He was one that would fight to the end, but there he had been, collapsed on upturned crate, his head heavy in his hands.

“ _What do we do?”_

They were running out of options. Running out of time. Running out of places to go. The suggestion there, but offered up meekly. Hosea taking charge where Dutch had not. The group of them conversing until the early hours of the morning. The decision final. And that following morning, they had gone their separate ways.

That had been months ago.

Months of being on the run. Of keeping their heads down. Never staying in one place for more than a few days. Most of their possessions left behind at the abandoned plantation. They didn’t have the means to take it with them. Only the necessities. It felt odd, not having his wagon. His few possessions stuffed in his satchel, the rest in his saddle bags. Yet the adjustment had been easier for him than it had been for the others.

Arthur often spent days if not weeks on the road. He was used to living off little and surviving well enough. But Dutch had gotten used to having something more permanent, and Hosea...well he wasn't as young as he used to be. The man complaining at every opportunity about how rough things were. His eagerness at finally settling down.

Once they got there, that was.

And Grimshaw? Well, nothing much seemed to faze her. The woman still adamant she was in charge. Barking orders at every given opportunity. The amount of times she and Dutch got into it with each other was amusing. More than one person assuming they were a couple with the way they carried on. Hosea did little to try and intervene, and Arthur didn't dare. Had learned long ago that getting in between them was just tempting fate. Rather he chose to hang back with Hosea, the two of them pairing up, riding together as they made their way slowly west.

Until eventually they had wound up here, on the outskirts of Strawberry. The buzz of the small town in the distance. He was waiting now, after collecting the mail, for the others to arrive. They had gone their separate ways, with the intention of stocking up one final time. He glanced up at the steps, Hosea nodding towards him. The bags he had passed along to Grimshaw who made short work in securing them.

“Any news?”

“Sure,” he nodded, passing the letter off. “Seems like they made it alright.”

Sadie's writing was pristine, almost. Slanted and sleek, the note outlying their journey, as well as their intention. Vague in case the letter was picked up by someone unfavorable, but enough context in there for him to follow. It surprised him, honestly. Out of all of them, she was about the only who could truly break away and make a new start. But she had chosen to stay. Had gone ahead with Charles and Lenny both, the trio buzzing through Blackwater and further into untamed land.

“Seems like they found a spot down near Armadillo; said they're picking up some bounty work in the area. Could be good money there,” Hosea shared the news as Dutch joined them. The man carting supplies of his own. It seems unnecessary, to him, to be gathering this much stuff. But then again, it would be a while before they could actually stop.

“That is good to hear,” Dutch seemed pleased, even as he waved off Arthur's attempt to help load the single wagon. Despite all that had happened, the one thing that hadn't changed was their determination to not let him do much. It still frustrated him.

“You know, I ain't dead yet,” he pointed out. The comment provoking a dry laugh.

“And I prefer to keep it that way,” Dutch glanced his way. Briefly. Then he was focused back on Hosea.

“I'm guessing they didn't run into trouble?”

That had been part of the plan. Sending the three of them off ahead, probing for potential traps. For anyplace that might cause trouble. Taking this route was risky; but perhaps it was their best shot. Last they saw, the Pinkertons were poking around in the south for them. Last place they'd look was right in the place it all began. Or so, that was the hope.

“I don't know about this, Dutch,” Arthur let out a heavy sigh.

“Well I do,” he wouldn't be swayed. “We wait until nightfall; then we ride hard and fast. Soon as we clear the Lower Montana, we should be in the clear.”

That was Dutch's new plan. Speed past Blackwater, leave it all behind in the dust. Get back out to the desert, where the air was dry. Out to a place where the law wouldn't find them. Because why would the law look for them there?

It sounded good, in theory. But Arthur knew. Knew the only reason they were headed this way was because of him. Him and his damn illness.

It seemed to have settled. Not as prying as it had been those months ago. Maybe because he had recovered from the trauma inflicted on him by none other than Micah. Maybe because they had gradually migrated to drier air. Maybe, Dutch had even said, the doctor was a fool and had no idea what he was truly talking about.

Arthur didn't pay much attention to that. Didn't feel as though it held much validity. Because he had spent too long feeling the burn of each cough. Had spent far too many days with a chest so tight it felt like his ribs were likely to break. Just because he had grown accustomed to it didn't mean it had gotten better. Rather he gotten better at hiding it.

Hosea's tonics helped as well.

He had been leery about taking them. Not after what had happened the last time. The man having to convince him more than once that it had not left his sight. Had even gone as far as making it in front of him, and handing it right over, freshly brewed. Didn't much like the taste of it, but it did make a difference.

He felt a little stronger. It was a good feeling.

They made a bit of a camp. Sharing the spoils of a deer he managed to fell. The venison fresh and succulent. The meat chased down by gin. For a moment, things felt normal. As though they weren't about to run straight into death. A tenderness in the air, watching as the sun edged lower and lower in the sky, until veins of twilight stretched over the trees. That feeling broken as Dutch reiterated the plan once more, as though they hadn't gone over it a million times already.

Then they were moving.

Susan taking to the wagon with Dutch. Hosea mounted on Silver right next to him. The horses edgy, sensing their apprehension. Arthur tried to calm Hera, a hand resting on her flank. She stilled under his hold, the tension fading. He wished he could calm himself just as easy.

From the front, Dutch looked back to them one final time, the legitimacy in his tone.

“Our fortune lies out west, gentleman. You all know what to do; let's ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, it's over.
> 
> This fic, honestly, was only supposed to be a few chapters, but it got away from me. I hope it didn't disappoint. It felt like a good place to split it off from canon, give the story a new outlook, and new hope for Arthur. Bittersweet, but far better than what was originally supposed to happen, at least in my opinion. 
> 
> I have a few things in the works, but none close to be posted, so this might be it for a while. Keep an eye out and hopefully you'll hear from me soon. In the meantime, thanks to all of you that stuck with me thus far! Love you all :)


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